


they'll know my name

by Misaki_kaito



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, F/M, Female Geralt of Rivia, Multi, Past Geralt/Yennefer, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misaki_kaito/pseuds/Misaki_kaito
Summary: Geralt always seems to find herself in the middle of some kind of trouble.Unfortunately, that was one aspect of herself that didn't change, despite amnesia, confusion and general manipulation:She's always at the right place, in the wrong time.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It seemed that, lately, all of Geralt's choices were being made for her. She wasn't cruel by nature, but the Trials and the subsequent binding of her magic made her more volatile than a male Witcher; her fellow Witchers did not have to deal with their own bodies trying to tear itself apart after they overextended themselves, after all.

Geralt didn't like it.

She was used to being the strange: the first and only female witcher of the School of the Wolf, an outcast even among outcasts. But Vesemir didn't give a shit about her sex; he trained her as well as any boy, and set her loose upon the world with a new name and silver and steel on her back.

She was the best of them, and bested all of them, and proved her skill time and again in a world that continuously disparaged women, and discriminated against non-humans and magic users. Geralt was all three, and her path was harder than it ought to have been. But like flame and forge, her hardships tempered her into a blade, and Geralt came through the other side stronger than steel.

She had faced many things in her long years of walking the Path; monsters of all kinds that fell to her swords, both silver and steel. Geralt watched as desperation sharpened the knife of cruelty and apathy, lords growing fat while their charges starved.

Witchers were supposedly neutral in politics; never intervening unless the enemy could be felled only by a silver blade.

But there was much pain in the world, and while Geralt wouldn't call herself a bleeding heart for every sob story, even _she_ was not made of stone.

And that led her into scrapes like this one; interrogated for Foltest's murder, set to be executed for a crime she did not commit. The guards were disconcerted by her lack of shame as they stripped her, then by her silence as she bore their beatings.

Maybe it was her eyes that frightened grown men so; cat's eyes that gleamed in the dark, icy and cold. Who knew what it was that disturbed them? Ultimately, Geralt couldn't care less. The shackles that bound her were not strong enough to contain her, but the guard never grew lax enough for an opportunity to rise. Roche's doing, no doubt.

And then finally, she met the man himself, after enjoying days of his “hospitality”. Amusingly enough, he sputtered and nearly choked at her state of undress. At least he didn't blush.

“Witchers have little need for modesty, Roche,” Geralt said, voice raspy from disuse. “What I _would_ appreciate are free hands.” Geralt rolled her shoulders pointedly. Roche let out a strangled noise as he turned away to bang on the door behind him.

People were so strange about breasts.

“Ves! Untie her and bring in a shirt for her as well as some food and water,” He said to a woman who opened the door. A minute later, she returned, a tray of food in one hand, and a rough linen shirt in the other. She silently placed the food on the table before walking around behind Geralt. Geralt couldn't help but tense at the foreign presence at her back, but relaxed minutely at the sound of a key turning in a lock. Geralt carefully brought her arms to the front when the shackles fell away, mindful of the strain they've been through recently.

Ves stalked out the door, but not before shoving the shirt into Geralt's now free hands. Geralt sighed as she rubbed the kinks out of her shoulder before slipping the shirt gently over her wounded torso.

“So,” Geralt said as she grabbed the water gingerly, “What do you want to know?” There was no poison in or on the cup, but Geralt still drank the water in sips; water deprivation was like starvation, and glutting after famine never ended well for the body. And Geralt had absolutely no desire to vomit what little she could get.

But Roche waited impatiently, prodding her until she answered. And so Geralt spilled her sorry tale to Roche, and was taken to Flotsam for her troubles. The one good thing was that Roche believed her claims of innocence. That, and Triss was there; until Geralt had to again make a choice: Roche, or Iorveth.

Because her life wasn't already complicated enough. In the end, though, Geralt chose to go with Roche. She refused to look back, and she refused to regret; for all the “what-ifs” and “could-have-beens”, Geralt had her own Path to walk, and retracing her steps would be an exercise in futility.

In the end, Geralt saved Triss, but was unable to save Anais. Henselt was dead by Roche's hand, and the Lodge of Sorceresses' scheme was revealed.

And yet, Geralt had bigger fish to fry than Radovid, or Phillipa, or even Leto. Roche's protests when she refused to fight Leto rang in her ears, but her reply was one she would never have changed, no matter the circumstance.

“We were just pawns, all of us; Leto, me, even you, Roche, in an effort to sow chaos in the North. Death would be a clean end; War is coming, and it is only the beginning.” After that, Geralt left, to find her past, to find Yennefer, and to find Ciri.

And then Emhyr happened.

While Geralt appreciated the bath, she did not appreciate getting frogmarched into his office.

—————————————

“The Emperor of Nilfgaard, Yen? _Really?_ ” Geralt couldn't help but question as they rode to Vizima.

“A lot has happened, Geralt,” Yennefer replied, audibly amused.

 _'Too much,'_ Geralt couldn't help but think grumpily. She had spent so much time chasing for any trace of Yennefer, only for Yen to track her down after a small mob came after her and Vesemir. “Is it too long of a story for you to tell me?”

“I'll explain it all once we get there, Geralt,” Yen deflected, and that just made Geralt even more irritated, especially after the Wild Hunt nearly chased them down.

“What's the Wild Hunt doing here?” Geralt shouted as she and Yen desperately rode away towards Vizima.

“Not now, Geralt!” Yen rebuffed, and Geralt growled, exasperated. She stayed silent for the rest of the ride to Vizima; if Yen didn't want to talk, then they wouldn't talk. Geralt has had enough of secrets to last her a lifetime.

And then she found herself getting prepared for an audience with the Emperor of Nilfgaard. While she did not mind the bath, the interrogation was highly inappropriate; witchers may have no need for modesty, but Geralt liked to relax when in a bath, not face incessant questions.

Thankfully, the chamberlain was on her side for once.

“This is highly irregular, General Voorhis.” Mererid was stoic and highly disapproving from behind the thatched wood and paper screen.

“The Emperor wants answers, chamberlain, sooner rather than later,” Movran Voorhis replied easily, but it poorly hid his discomfort.

“And his Majesty will receive his answers, after the madam is out of the bath.” Geralt tuned them out after that, choosing instead to focus on actually being _clean_. The maids scrubbed her efficiently, the brushes coarse against her skin, but getting the job done in scrubbing the grime of the road off.

Geralt was amused at their attempts to cover her scars, but she drew the line at their attempts to stuff her in a dress.

“No,” Geralt said flatly, eyeing the black, ruffled monstrosity, “I am a witcher, not one of your primped Nilfgaardian ladies.”

“Madam will wear fitting Court clothing when receiving an audience with His Majesty,” the chamberlain said stiffly.

Geralt eyed the chamberlain, and sighed. “Fine,” Geralt snarled, and stalked behind the screen.

It looked worse than she feared. Geralt had never been inclined to frippery or ornamentation; she wore no jewelry but the pair of silver studs that Vesemir had gifted her at the start of her journey on the Path. The only saving grace was that the dress itself wasn't irritating her skin, and was made from fine cloth that she seldom wore.

The problem lay in the fit of the dress itself. Geralt had little in the way of softness on her body; Witcher strength came at a cost, her body almost entirely hard muscle and sinew from training and the stress of the mutations. Her arms were thick from wielding two longswords, her powerful, wide shoulders hulking and ungainly under thin fabric.

Geralt emerged from behind the curtain sullenly, but with her shoulders back and chin up.

Mererid eyed her critically.

“The cut is not ideal, but we have precious little time,” he said, “Nevertheless, do you know how to curtsy?”

Geralt stared at him blankly.

_Shit._

——————————————-

Meeting Emhyr again was about as bad as Geralt thought it would be. He hasn't changed much, still as infuriatingly sharp as ever despite the increasing gray in his hair. Geralt still hated how easily he read her, but could appreciate how he ignored her state of dress in favor of getting down to business. If he had made even a single comment she would have tried something very stupid, Emperor of Nilfgaard or not. And then he told her what he tracked her down for; or rather, what he sent Yennefer to track her down for: Ciri.

She had to go track down his daughter, and her own ward in an effort to protect her from the Wild Hunt, and potentially from Emhyr himself.

Her life just got a hell more complicated. Wonderful.

Geralt sneered at the memory of Emhyr's orders, but Yen's subservience to him was what really caught her ire. They had done everything in their power to avoid being beholden to nobility and royalty, and look where they end up. A pet Witcher and Sorceress to the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

At least when Emhyr tried to stare Geralt into submission, he had to look up to do it. That she was taller than Emhyr was always a point of vicious, petty satisfaction; she was someone he couldn't physically look down on.

“I'll find Ciri because she's my daughter as much as she is yours, Your Majesty,” Geralt ground out when she was dismissed, and spun on her heels to follow Mererid out to Yen's suite. Geralt could hear the whispers and tittering laughs of the lords and ladies as she left the office of the Emperor in her ungainly dress. Geralt knew full well how out of place she was in the Nilfgaardian High Court, but sometimes her enhanced senses were more of a curse than a gift; they allowed her to hear far more than she wanted to, at times. The sole saving grace of this whole situation was that no one had forced her into those horrid heeled shoes; that constant clacking would have gotten very old, very quickly, and Geralt had no patience for it.

Geralt was never gladder than when she finally reached Yennefer's rooms.

“Geralt, what on earth are you wearing?”

Or maybe not.

Geralt surveyed Yen's suite and asked, “Do you have anything that's _not_ a dress?” as she waited for Yen to calm down. Yen pointed to a dresser across the room as she tried to calm her laughter, and Geralt stalked to it eagerly before rummaging around for a decent pair of pants. The results of her search were still a little too decorated for Geralt's personal tastes, but a pair of trousers, not matter how frilled or embroidered were a vast improvement over the dress. They would be a little short and a little tight, but nothing Geralt hadn't handled before.

As Geralt stomped over to the screen in the corner of the room, Yennefer finally managed to recover from her laughing fit. “How in the world did Mererid manage to stuff _you_ into a dress?”

Geralt grumbled unintelligibly before saying loudly, “He got Voorhis off my back when I was in the baths, I figured it was an even trade.” Geralt finished changing efficiently. The laces of the dress had snapped the moment Geralt had taken in a proper breath, which didn't surprise her at all.

“That's Mererid's _job_ , Geralt. He is to ensure courtly manner and civility, and he takes his duties very seriously. Anyways we have a job to do,” Yennefer said as Geralt emerged from behind the screen, dressed in the embroidered leather pants and a plain white blouse.

“I was only told a little; only that I'm supposed to track Ciri down, and that she's in danger.”

“The Wild Hunt is after her, and I am afraid that my own efforts to track her down may have put her in more danger; they traced the magic I used to try and find her back to me. That's why they attacked us.” Yennefer leaned against the desk behind her, watching as Geralt strode towards her.

“Then we have a lot to do.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit goes _down_.

 

As she watched Ciri go into the portal, Geralt knew she was going to do something stupid. And dangerous. But she didn't care. At the last moment before Ciri stepped over the threshold, Geralt stretched her magic out to Ciri's, grasping that tendril that could transcend time and space, and pushed until she had a bond that wouldn't break between her and her Ward.

Geralt methodically took out three doses Petri's Philter, and without hesitation, downed them all, one after the other. The burn of the potion blazed within her, but Geralt held fast as she sank to her knees, and sent out through the bond the strongest Quen she could manage.

She immediately felt the mana drain from her as she poured her magic through the bond; the tingle and numbness as magic was drained too quickly for her to recover, as the Quen was battered by forces beyond Geralt's knowledge. Still, Geralt held on, heedless of the pain; Ciri _had_ to survive this. She had to _live._

Geralt would not accept anything less.

An indeterminate time later Geralt could feel blood flowing from her nose, the pain a constant, throbbing thing as she kept her grip on the bond. Her focus was so absolute that she didn't notice when the White Frost shattered, returning from where it came; Geralt only felt a stabbing pain and then, nothing.

There was nothing.

  
  


——————————————————————

  
  


Ciri gasped as she dove back through the portal, battle-honed instincts the only thing keeping her from falling out face first. Somehow the White Frost knew what she was, knew that she could defeat it; when she approached it, something in her reacted violently, a wave of heat almost unbearably strong that acted as a catalyst. She expected it to burn, to _hurt_ , but no pain came. There was only dull pressure as Ciri was thrown back, a roar as heat and ice clashed before the ice shattered, the frost broken and disintegrating.

Ciri ran back as fast as she could; the portal would close and she would be trapped here if she did not hurry. But the cold did not bother her, and Ciri could only find that strange for a fleeting moment before she caught sight of the way back.

_Home. Geralt._

And Ciri stepped through Time and Space and threw herself through the portal, back home.

And into madness.

The bitter cold of the White Frost was gone, but where Ciri expected to see Geralt whole and hale, instead she found her mentor on the ground in the throes of a seizure. It was only then that Ciri finally noticed the gold energy flitting about her, flickering as Geralt's magic weakened.

“No!” Ciri shouted and surged towards Geralt, hands outstretched. She was thwarted, however, as Avallac'h intercepted her. “Let me go!” Ciri struggled and slipped out of his grasp. Ciri felt wild, her magic in a frenzy as she sped to Geralt's side; as she could finally feel the bond that Geralt had created, and poured her magic through.

There was blood streaming from Geralt's eyes, nose and ears as she convulsed on the stone and Ciri swore as she saw the empty Philters. _'Stupid, stupid idiot of a witcher!'_ Ciri thought as she did something equally idiotic and poured magic back through the bond. It was not what it was meant for: the bond was a one-way road but she had little recourse. The longer she waited, the more damage Geralt's body sustained with the absence of the magic that kept her alive.

“Have you dismantled the barrier?” Ciri asked urgently. Only an experienced sorceress could help right now, and Yennefer was closest.

“It's down, but what-”

“Get Yen, she can save Geralt!” Ciri shouted at him, and continued to concentrate on the flow of her own magic. Too much was already flooding the bond, and Geralt's body absorbed it as fast as she poured it into her.

Ciri was so absorbed in keeping Geralt from dying that she didn't notice the second set of pounding footsteps until another magical aura joined hers. She looked up fleetingly to see Yennefer's face next to her own, her skin ashen in horror as she took in the sight they made.

“Please, Yen,” Ciri said as she wavered, and jerked back as magic erupted from Yennefer in a blaze of silver. Geralt convulsed as the magic hit her, but then went still as Yennefer swore a blue streak and her magic intensified. Ciri collapsed backwards and watched wearily as the bleeding slowed, then stopped, and some color returned to Geralt's skin. Geralt unconsciously tried to use the bond to send more magic back to Ciri, but she shut that down hastily, lest the situation become even worse.

“White Honey, now!” Yennefer hissed before funneling the magic she had into Geralt.

“What is wrong with her?” Avallac'h said as he crouched beside Ciri, watching Yennefer as she struggled to stabilize Geralt.

“Being a witcher comes with a price,” Ciri answered, before pushing onto her knees, and went over to Geralt's body. “Geralt needs magic to stay alive— but she can overcome her body's reflex in storing that magic to use it for something else, like protecting me. She did that, on top of taking three doses of a highly toxic potion,” Ciri continued as she searched for White Honey, letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of the small, innocuous vial.

Ciri snatched it up and uncorked it with her teeth before pouring it down Geralt's throat. Yen put one final surge of magic into Geralt before she let her power ebb and then stop. She sat back on her heels, panting and shaking.

“That is all I can do without the bond that once tethered us. She is stable magically, for now, but there's a lot of damage,” Yennefer said as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

“How bad is it?” Ciri asked. Geralt had stopped convulsing, but she was still bloody and far paler than she should have been.

“She gave you a lot, Ciri,” Yennefer said shortly as she stood, “We're going to need Triss for this, I'm afraid.” And Ciri grabbed Geralt as Yen opened a portal. With Avallac'h's help, they ended up back at the base camp at Undvik.

“Triss!” Yen shouted as she came through, and thankfully, Triss was nearby.

“Yennefer! Where's—” Triss stopped and paled as she caught sight of Geralt slung over Avallac'h and Ciri's shoulders. “What happened?” She demanded as she hurried over, hands glowing with healing magic.

“She drained herself to protect Ciri,” Yen said as she watched. She was drained herself, or she would have tried to help. “She's stable for now, but there was a lot of damage. I...I don't know if she'll wake up.”

Triss met her eyes worriedly, before directing Ciri and Avallac'h to lay Geralt in the nearest cot. “Ciri, some wet cloths, please,” Triss ordered as she examined Geralt. Her wounds from the battles with Eredin and Caranthir had mostly clotted and were starting to scab over, but Triss had bigger problems to worry about. “What did she take and what did you administer?”

“Three doses of Petri's Philter, and I gave her one dose of White Honey.”

“Good, good,” Triss muttered as she examined Geralt's eyes, “The philters won't cause more damage. Her eyes are responding to light, but very slowly; she may be concussed and her brain may be bleeding, and I can heal that. But the damage from the lack of magic may be deeper, and I don't know what I can do about it, if anything.”

“Can something, anything be done?” Ciri asked urgently.

“I can dress her wounds and take turns with Yennefer to funnel more magic into her, but that's it; she'll have t wake up on her own,” Triss said as she sighed, and got to work.

The extent of the damage Geralt took fighting the Wild Hunt was not... pretty. Her magic and witcher mutagens would have healed it all, and left naught but scars had she not protected Ciri.

Ciri startled as a hand was laid upon her shoulder. Ciri turned to see Avallac'h, who motioned for her to come away from the two sorceresses working to heal the closest thing to a parent she's got. But Ciri threw one last, worried glance at Geralt, before turning to follow Avallac'h.

He lead her to a more secluded part of the camp, and when he stopped, Ciri snapped at him and said,

“Yes? What is it?”

“What exactly did the witcher do?” Avallac'h asked abruptly.

Ciri looked at him warily. “Why do you want to know?”

Avallac'h waved impatiently. “Whatever she did may have saved your life Zirael, in a way I hadn't thought was possible. What I want to know is how she did it.”

Ciri watched Avallac'h's expression, searching for any hint of deception or untruth. When she found none, she relaxed a little, and sighed.

“Geralt's the daughter of a sorceress, and would have been one in her own right had she not undergone Witcher training and mutations.” Avallac'h stared at Ciri before motioning for her to continue. “The mutations took, obviously, but much of her magic became bound to her own body, keeping her alive and from the mutagens from overwhelming her body and killing her. The magic helps heal her wounds, and lets the mutagens give her the normal witcher strength and durability. She has enough excess magic to use the Signs, but if she tries to use more than her surplus, the magic is drained away from places like her organs and her brain. Then the body rebels against the mutations, and well,” Ciri gestures towards Geralt. “That happens.”

“While that explains much of what happened there,” Avallac'h said as he nods his head in Geralt's direction, “It does not explain the magic that managed to travel worlds in order to protect you.”

Ciri touched Vesemir's amulet round her neck, and replied, “She created a bond between us, after she claimed me under the Law of Surprise, and she used that bond as a connection, and pushed a Quen through it. After that, she poured everything that she had through the bond.”

“Truly? Even after fighting Eredin? She can't have had much left,” Avallac'h muttered. Ciri sank down to the nearest seat, and put her head in her hands.

“She fought and killed Caranthir and Eredin to keep me safe. She pulled in every contact, every favor to keep the Wild Hunt from getting at me. And she traveled half the world just to find me. She doesn't lack for determination, Avallac'h,” Ciri said, and sighed. She raised her head to look at where Geralt lay, still and silent despite Triss and Yennefer's attentions. “Now that determination may have killed her.”

“You did all you could, Zirael,” Avallac'h said, uncharacteristically gentle.

“It was not enough. Not nearly enough,” Ciri snapped, but breathed in sharply, visibly restraining herself. “It's done. Now we wait.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath- and a complication.

 

Turns out waiting wasn’t the hard part.

The Nilfgaardian army brought them back to Vizima as fast as they could, but even at their swiftest, it took them six weeks to reach Vizima. In that time, they had gotten Geralt stable, though her condition was not improving as much as they’d hoped either. She was frighteningly cold at times, and the meager food they could get into her wasn’t doing much good. Ciri had insisted on staying with Geralt at the time, despite her condition; Triss and Yennefer were also there, but they had to deal with the Lodge first. 

It was terrible seeing Geralt like this; still and silent, as if she were one breath away from dying. Yennefer insisted she was stable, but Ciri couldn’t help but worry.

But Ciri couldn’t stay at Geralt’s side forever, especially once they’d arrived in Vizima. Her father summoned her almost immediately, and this was a summons that Ciri couldn’t refuse.

He wasn’t in the courtyard this time, but in his office. There were officials of all kinds, generals and aristocrats surrounding him, vying for his attention. They all fell silent when she entered the room. It probably helped that Mererid announced her, with  _ all _ of her titles.

But when she looked at him- she shared none of his features. They were as dissimilar as could be, and yet he had no doubts that she was his daughter.

“You’ve returned, I see. And have you given any thought to the letter I sent?” Straight to business. As usual. And yet, that was comforting.

Ciri looked around; all of the courtiers were still there, and were listening intently.

“A little privacy would be appreciated,” she said, turning her gaze back on Emhyr. He waved a hand in clear dismissal; the aristocrats and courtiers filed out quickly, and the room was nearly empty in no time. Ciri sighed.

“Yes, I have thought about your proposal. Extensively,” she added, before coming to stand in front of his desk. “I have questions.”

“And I will answer them,” Emhyr replied, and with another wave of his hand, a chair was brought in for her. “Sit. Please.” 

Ciri sat.

And they talked.

* * *

 

She walked out of that office shaking slightly, but surer than she’d ever been. It was strange;  _ she _ had held all the power in that office, not Emhyr, and it showed. He respected her decisions, answered all of her questions, and conceded to her stipulations. 

Geralt would stay under the protection of Nilfgaard until she was fully recovered from the battle against Eredin, and that was what Ciri was the most relieved about. 

Mererid showed her to her own rooms, but then guided her to where Geralt was staying. She was close to Ciri, strangely enough; Geralt’s room was only a hallway down from Ciri’s own chambers, and it was easily accessible to herself, Yennefer and Triss. 

Geralt had been sleeping for nearly two months now. She was growing thinner as time passed, losing muscle and what little fat she had, even as Yen and Triss tried to keep her fed. It was a strain that wasn’t letting up, and Ciri couldn’t even be there as much as she would have liked to lend what support she could. One of Emhyr’s conditions was that she start her training immediately; she had a lot to learn, and precious little time to learn it. 

The day after she had agreed, Ciri had been assigned her own chamberlain and servants, and they had seen to her daily schedule, which was suddenly fuller than a dragon’s hoard. All of what little free time she had was spent at Geralt’s side, reading to her, and speaking to her; giving her something to come back to.

* * *

 

Geralt couldn't remember the last time she had actually slept; in between tracking down Ciri to keep her from the Wild Hunt and the race to gather allies, there was little time to relax somewhere safe, to sleep undisturbed.

Geralt could smell the earth as she breathed in deeply, the warm breeze riffling through the grass and the sound of Ciri's voice from far away. She could feel the sun's rays, dappling the shade with spots of bright heat, and Geralt breathed deeply, at a semblance of peace.

Geralt was resting her eyes, basking in the sun when suddenly, a familiar voice said gruffly,

“Wake up, Wolf. It's not your time yet.” That was Vesemir, alright. Geralt sighed hard, and rolled over, avoiding her mentor.

“I'm tired, Vesemir. Five more minutes,” Geralt grumbled as she tried to return to sleep, keeping her eyes steadfastly closed. The grass rustled beside her, and Geralt fully expected to feel the tip of Vesemir's boot collide with her back. Instead, a hand landed over her eyes, covering them and keeping them from opening. Geralt tried to raise her hands to remove it, but somehow, she couldn't move anymore.

“What—”

“Stop, Geralt. Listen for Ciri, girl, and don't open your eyes. Only the dead may see what is here, and it is not your time to die yet, though you've certainly come close you foolish child. You cannot rest here, and you cannot stay. The longer you sleep, the harder it will be for when you go back; it took me too long to find you as is.”

“Vesemir, what are you talking—” Geralt stopped as she remembered.

“D'you finally remember then? Yes, I'm dead. And you are not allowed to join me, not for a long time yet, pup.”

Geralt felt tears well up beneath her closed lids. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, voice tight with rage and grief.

“I gave my life willingly, Geralt, to humanity, and then for Ciri. I went down fighting, and that's more than many can say,” Vesemir said, his voice laced with affection and pride. “I'm proud of all of you. You, Ciri, Eskel, and Lambert are my legacy. Now go back, Geralt. Your daughter is waiting.”

His hand fell away, and Geralt opened her eyes.

It took a moment for her senses to adapt to the sudden influx of information. From the smell, she was in Yennefer's suite in Vizima, and Ciri and Triss were here, somewhere along with Yennefer. There was little light in the room, but judging by the brightening sky outside the nearby window, it was near dawn.

Geralt tried to get up, to even lift her head, and—

No. No, not happening, her body was having none of it as Geralt collapsed back with a soft groan, her nerves screaming at her in pain. Geralt breathed through the pain, before trying to inspect her surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was the sound of someone snoring softly. Geralt strained to see it was none other than Ciri, on a chair with her head down on the bed, with Yennefer and Triss on a nearby armchair and desk respectively.

“Ciri,” Geralt tried to whisper, but no sound came from her throat. Suddenly Geralt realized how parched she was, her throat dry and her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. Geralt huffed a little in frustration, before using a hand to touch Ciri's arm.

She didn't expect Ciri to jump about three feet in the air, successfully startling Yennefer out of the chair and Triss awake.

“What— Who— _Geralt_!” Ciri said, gasping for breath. Geralt was doing her best _not_ to laugh, but she couldn't help but smile at Ciri, alive and whole in front of her.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” Geralt managed to whisper before turning her head to cough away from Ciri.

“You're awake,”Yennefer said as she got up from the floor, then grabbed a nearby pitcher of water, and filled the cup next to it. “Here,” she said, tipping the full cup to Geralt's lips, “Drink slowly.”

Geralt knew better than to ignore a direct order in _that_ tone. The water was a cool relief, and Geralt could finally speak.

“We're in Vizima? How long have I been asleep?”

“You've been out for almost two months; the Emperor had us brought here upon my and Ciri's request. You were in bad shape, Geralt,” Yennefer said as she put away the cup, then sat at the edge of the bed.

“I can feel it,” Geralt agreed as she tried to shift so that she was at least sitting up. Almost immediately there were two pairs of hands pinning her back to the bed.

“If you try and get up, I will tie you to this bed,” Ciri threatened, “You very nearly _died_ , Geralt! You need to rest.”

“What I need is food and water,” Geralt argued, “And all I wanted to do was sit up.” Ciri exchanged looks with Triss and Yennefer, before they helped Geralt sit so she could at least see the room.

A myriad of expressions crossed Ciri's face before she finally said, “You shouldn't have done that for me, Geralt. I would have been fine—”

“You don't know that, Ciri. And it was my choice, and with that choice come the consequences,” Geralt said calmly. Triss had returned from giving directions to a guard— hopefully for some food.

“Well, the consequences of your choice nearly killed you, Geralt. Never mind funneling magic down a bond never meant for such a thing. Just because you and Ciri share a bond doesn't mean you can use it willy-nilly! And on top of that, you took three doses of Petri's Philter. _Three_. One dose alone is a fairly toxic concoction, but three in your system, at the same time?” Yennefer was near incandescent with rage.

“Yen,” Triss said soothingly as she put a hand on her arm, and Yennefer took a deep breath before pointing at Geralt.

“Never do that again, Geralt. If Ciri hadn't given you White Honey, you would have _died._ And then where would we be?”

“I—”

“It wouldn't matter to you because you'd be dead!” Yennefer interrupted.

“Yennefer!” This time Ciri spoke, her tone full of reprimand. Yennefer put her head in her hands and exhaled shakily.

“If Ciri had died because I was afraid of a little pain I would never have forgiven myself, and neither would you,” Geralt said fiercely. The silence in the room was strange and tense. It finally broken when Geralt said at last, “I can't promise something like this won't happen again; I'd do anything for those I love. But, I can be more careful,” she grudgingly conceded, and Yennefer huffed a laugh.

“Careful? You?” Geralt grimaced as both Triss and Yen laughed, and even Ciri couldn't help but smile.

Yennefer reached out to grasp one of Geralt's hands, and Ciri grabbed the other; Triss stood with one hand each on Yennefer and Ciri's shoulders.

They would be alright. Somehow.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the consequences are revealed. Geralt isn't happy.

 

"Don't go easy on me, Ciri!" Geralt warned as she and Ciri circled each other in a fairly private training ring. Emhyr had been surprisingly generous during Geralt's sorceress enforced stay in Vizima; Ciri being there probably helped, but Geralt was kind of grateful when she didn't get summoned for yet another Imperial audience.

Her wounds had healed fairly quickly after she had regained consciousness though there were still lingering aches and pains. Geralt had spent far too long in bed, however; it was high time for her to get back into shape so she could get back to the Path.

The only ones who could provide Geralt any challenge were either Triss, Yennefer, or Ciri. Yen was away doing some work for Emhyr, Triss had already left for Kovir a week ago, and Geralt could only fight and destroy so many practice dummies before she was banned permanently from the practice grounds. So Geralt went to Ciri, who was happy enough to train for an afternoon.

Geralt was fiercely glad that Ciri had lost none of the edge that had helped her evade the Wild Hunt; she could see it in the way Ciri watched Geralt critically, eyeing her up for any potential weak points and openings in Geralt's defense.

Then Ciri flashed forward, impossibly fast, but Geralt was ready. When fighting Ciri, the last sense you wanted to rely on was sight; she could come from any direction. So Geralt listened, instead, for the tell-tale rush of air as she reappeared behind Geralt, blade already swinging. Geralt was ready, and spun to meet the attack with a parry, blades meeting for an instant before parting once more.

This went on and on, a game of cat and mouse, a dance and exchange of blows, until they were both breathing hard, but satisfied.

“C'mon, you're not done yet, are you?” Geralt taunted as they broke apart. Ciri answered by raising her blade in a near mocking salute.

“I'm not the one who was bedridden, Geralt. Getting slow, are we?”

Geralt snorted derisively and moved into an offensive stance and cast Quen- only to collapse to the ground as a strangled shriek of pain left her lips.

The pain was intense, the focus of all of Geralt's attention—but also familiar. Geralt struggled past the pain and opened her eyes to Ciri's worried face.

“Geralt!” It was evident that Ciri had been saying her name for quite a while, and Geralt struggled to get up as Ciri fretted. “What happened? What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” Geralt said through gritted teeth as she levered herself up.

“I'll go get a healer, or a mage—” Ciri said as she started to get up, but Geralt grabbed her arm just in time.

“Don't , Ciri, I'm alright,” Geralt protested as she flexed one hand open and closed.

“You are not alright, you just had another fit!”

“And I think I know what caused it!' Geralt protested, and sat up. “I'm sorry,” Geralt apologized, and before Ciri could stop her, cast Quen again.

Now that she was expecting the pain, Geralt was able to push past it and found her magic was flooding to enforce the Quen— but the channels the magic ran through screamed in a cold sort of agony, and the magic flowed into a void. Geralt opened her eyes with a gasp as the pain abruptly stopped, and sucked in a deep breath.

She was flat on her back, her shirt soaked through with sweat and still in the training room. Ciri was gone, and Geralt bit back a groan as she levered herself up.

And then Geralt heard the thunder of footfalls as Ciri burst back into the room, followed by a healer and a mage. Geralt groaned in disgust and dismay, and plopped back onto the ground.

_Great._

———————————————

Geralt managed to chase off the healer and the mage after a couple of minutes, though it took the better part of an hour and a summons from Emhyr to get Ciri to leave her alone.

By that point, Geralt had retreated to her rooms, exhausted from the pain and the use of magic, however thwarted.

What bothered her the most was that she couldn't cast Quen.

Quen was _the_ most used Sign by Witchers, the first one any Witcher ever learned. Quen protected Witchers, and Geralt couldn't return to the Path without it.  
As Geralt thought that, a wave of exhaustion rolled over her, and pulled her under. She didn't even remember falling into the bed.

Geralt opened her eyes to find that she wasn't in her rooms anymore, or anywhere in Vizima. Sun was streaming through the gently rustling branches of many trees, and the breeze was pleasantly cool. Geralt was standing in front of a great lake— a familiar one.

 _Come to me, Champion. You are wounded beyond mortal healing; I can help. Find me, Champion. I'll be waiting._ A voice whispered into Geralt's mind, gentle like a ripple on still water. It was the voice of the Lady of the Lake. As it faded, the scene grew hazy and bright, and Geralt came back to consciousness with a sigh.

Then there was a knock on the door, and the voice of an Imperial Guard came through the door, “Geralt of Rivia, His Imperial Majesty requests your presence at once.”

Geralt groaned, but rolled off of the bed. She made herself presentable at the washstand nearby, slicking her hair back with water before tying it back with a strip of leather.

Geralt didn't bother to change out of her practice clothes; she just didn't have the time, and she opened the door to follow the guard to Emhyr's office. Ciri was there as well; she hadn't changed out of her practice clothes either, and she stood with her arms crossed as she leaned against a wall. Emhyr was dressed simply, but elegantly in black; his chain of office the only gleam of color around his shoulders. He was reading a sheaf of paper— something official looking— when Geralt entered, before he set it down and turned to address her and the Guard. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed everyone from the room, leaving only Geralt, Ciri and Emhyr alone.

“Cirilla has told me of some of what had happened, but I would hear the whole tale,” Emhyr said, and motioned towards Geralt before folding his hands together.

Geralt eyed Emhyr, then Ciri and sighed imperceptibly, “I assume Ciri has told you of the events at Undvik?” At Emhyr's nod, Geralt continued, “I did everything in my power to keep Ciri safe. Some of my efforts have since had unforseen... consequences.”

“You were brought here by Cirilla, Yennefer and Triss, and were wholly unconscious. What other consequences have shown themselves?”

“None you need concern yourself with, Your Majesty,” Geralt said, barely managing to hold back a sneer, “I'm handling it.”

Emhyr's lips twitched. “I'm sure,” he said as he stood from his desk, “And your 'handling' of the situation had my heir in a panic. What are the consequences, and how do they effect you?” As he spoke, Emhyr walked around his desk and walked right up to Geralt, looking up slightly and meeting Geralt's eyes head on. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Geralt grit her teeth, and glanced at Ciri. Her expression was grim as she shook her head minutely. Geralt looked back down towards Emhyr and grimaced.

“It's a magical backlash,” Geralt explained evenly, eyes flickering from Emhyr to Ciri, “I am unique, so many of my problems are _also_ unique. I can only suspect that the magical channels. That allowed me to use Quen on Ciri and help protect her from the White Frost are either sensitive from overuse or outright damaged.” Emhyr was glacially calm as Geralt explained, and watched her critically.

“You _have_ changed,” he muttered, before turning to head back to his desk. “You have a lead, then, on how to fix your... ailment?”

“Of a sort, yes,” Geralt confirmed, warily, “I had a vision of a place where I'll find someone who I think will help.”

“And this someone is who?” Ciri asked, having had enough of maintaining her silence. Emhyr shot her a look, but she ignored it.

“The Lady of the Lake,” Geralt said as she turned her gaze to Ciri, “I heard her voice and I doubt she would mean her Champion harm.” Ciri pursed her lips pensively.

“You know how to find her, then.”

Geralt winced. “Not exactly,” she hedged, “I knew where she once was, but the lake I saw in the vision was different from the place I remember seeing her last. I'll be leaving soon to find her—”

“You promised me you'd be careful, Geralt!” Ciri accused, as she stepped towards Geralt, “Going off on your own is _not_ careful! Especially without Quen!”

“And this may be my only chance to get it back!”

Geralt saw from the corner of her eye as Emhyr glanced from Geralt, to Ciri and back to Geralt before seemingly coming to a decision.

“We will go with you,” he declared as he pulled out a clean piece of parchment.

“What?” Geralt squawked, and turned away from Ciri.

“Cirilla has progressed far enough in her studies that a tour of that which she will rule will do her good. A Grand Progress will suffice— and while you accompany us, you can search for this lake.” Geralt stared as Emhyr called for Mererid, and started barking out orders.

Ciri was equally gob-smacked, but her eyes held a hint of satisfaction. Geralt put an enormous effort into pulling her composure back together.

“When will we be leaving, then?” Geralt asked gruffly. Emhyr's eyes flickered to her, then Ciri; he had started in on writing some kind of letter, but paused and said,

“We will leave in three days; long enough for Yennefer to return. I expect both of you to be dressed appropriately and prompt.” Emhyr went back to his letter, and Geralt and Ciri took the dismissal for what it was and departed.

They walked down the hall in a daze before Ciri broke the silence.

“What just happened?” Ciri asked, incredulously.

Geralt shook her head disgustedly. “This is going to take forever,” Geralt grumbled as they walked back to her rooms.

“Too late to do anything about it,” Ciri said, amused, “Everything will be ready to go in three days; he's never wrong when it comes to logistics.”

And Emhyr wasn't. The palace was in an uproar after Emhyr announced the preparations for the Grand Progress, ostensibly to help Ciri learn more about the lands and people she was soon to rule. Ciri and Geralt knew that was not the only reason, but it was better that they kept their silence.

At least this way Geralt was no longer cooped up within the palace. As they traveled, Geralt was able to pick up a few small jobs on the side— nothing too strenuous, just the regular plague of nekkers and ghouls that comes after war.

It was grunt work, but work Geralt needed; without Quen, Geralt couldn't take on more dangerous or venomous hunts. These little jaunts helped Geralt's temper, soothed that itch of restlessness at the back of her head while the Progress plodded down newly constructed roads and highways.

Ciri was learning a _lot._ This was no break for her; in fact, the travels had increased her workload. The number of names, histories and political situations she had to remember and navigate grew the farther from Vizima they traveled.

But the Lady's Lake was nowhere to be found. Geralt traveled back to that island where she had once lived with Alvin, and while the lake and Temple still remained, there was no sign of the nymph.

The Vodyanoi had continued their worship unperturbed, and though the people of Murky Waters recognized her, they were equally clueless on the whereabouts of the Lady. The village _was_ overjoyed at the arrival of the Progress, however, and spend nearly three whole days and nights celebrating as the Royal Surveyors did their jobs.

At the beginning of the fourth day, Geralt was brought in front of Emhyr once more.

“You are still with us, Witcher; I can only surmise that you have not found that which you seek.” Geralt scowled heavily at Emhyr; if he already knew the answer, why bother asking the question? Emhyr only raised an eyebrow, and said, “I see. Then we will move on with the Progress this afternoon.”

Emhyr clapped once and his aides rushed in. As he started giving out orders, Geralt took the opportunity to slip away, though she could feel the weight of his gaze as she left. Geralt stalked through the camp irritably; the servants had gotten to work almost immediately, breaking down the camp quickly and efficiently.

This place had been a bust, and Geralt had no choice but to follow the Progress now.

_Wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of all the stuff I have written so far- updates will be slower, naturally, but I haven't given up on this! I've got it all plotted out. I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave a comment and/or kudo!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling the continent is not as fun as those story books make it out to be.

The Progress went further north, traveling via Novigrad to Redania, to Kovir and then Kaedwin. They avoided Blaviken, and Geralt thanked the gods for that, but the road was long and hard nonetheless. They were met with enthusiastic hospitality wherever the Progress stopped, though there was no sign of the Lady's Lake anywhere.

As time wore on, nearly a year had passed on Progress, and still, there was nothing. Geralt was  _ very _ unhappy. The only spots of brightness was when Triss had visited them at the Progress when they were traveling Kovir, and when Ciri invited Dandelion and Zoltan at Novigrad.

Dandelion gleefully plied his craft, becoming a favorite after he composed a song celebrating Ciri's return and the journey and trials she had overcome. The song was soon on everyone's lips, and even Emhyr approved, and gave Dandelion an Imperial Commission to write more songs just like that one. Dandelion was, of course, overjoyed to the point of tears, and was singing—sometimes literally—Emhyr's praises.

It grew tiresome  _ very _ quickly.

Geralt resorted to going on hunts with Voorhis of all people just to escape; he was weirdly amiable towards her, and usually up for anything. Which was very strange, but Geralt would take what she could get- she was nearly clawing at her own skin out of sheer boredom.

There was only so many times one could pound on a practice dummy.

It was not until after a particularly strenuous hunt that Geralt was told  _ why _ Morvran was doing this.

The answer boiled down to—as always—Emhyr.

The Progress had stopped at a small, but strategically significant village that was located at the edge of Kaedwen; it was having wyvern problems, and put up a bounty for the nest. After talking to the ealdorman, and haggling for the bounty, Geralt went to go see if Morvran was up for a wyvern hunt. 

He very much was, and was ready to head out within the hour. 

They'd just taken down a wyvern nest, with some help from a couple of bombs and battle tactics. Geralt found that she had to fight smarter now, with less sheer brute force. It was one pro in a sea of cons.

“I am glad His Majesty suggested this,” Morvran said, slightly winded on his horse.

Geralt was standing on the ground, the corpse of the last wyvern beside her. She glanced up at him in surprise.

“What did you just say?” Geralt said sharply. Morvran looked at her, startled.

“You did not know? His Majesty had brought it up a few weeks ago. To be clear, he brought up my own restlessness first, then suggested I approach you about a hunt. Of course, I would not pressure you into something you did not wish to do.” Morvran was quick to reassure Geralt, but she was having none of it.

She snorted derisively. “So all of this was Emhyr's idea?”

Morvran looked increasingly unsure as he answered. “Yes?”

Geralt made what was sure to be an extremely unflattering face, and glared at the wyvern as she knelt to butcher it. Morvran was unusually quiet on the ride back to the camp they had set up, but Geralt was too busy stewing in her own fury to notice. The night was long, and Geralt couldn't even meditate: she was far too agitated.

Geralt was glaring at the fire when she registered Morvran coming to sit across her, looking at her pensively.

“You know, I did not know quite what to make of you when we first met; our first meeting was unfortunate in its timing, but I have never known a woman to fight as you do, nor be quite so...” He struggled visibly for a word that wouldn't offend her, but Geralt put an end to that quickly.

“Abrasive? Rude? Barbaric?” Geralt raised an eyebrow as Morvran's mouth curved into a frown. “I've heard it all before, and worse; there is not much I can't hear, Voorhis,” she said, and tilted her head and tapped an ear lightly.

Morvran looked at her with interest, “That could prove useful,” he said, “But back to my point, speaking to you made me realize certain things-- about both you, and Cirilla.” He paused for a moment, as if he was trying to gather the right words. “You both have had to rely on yourselves for much of your lives, with maybe one or two people with you that you could trust- Cirilla, because she was on the run from the Wild Hunt, and you because you are an oddity, even among your kind.”

“And your point is?” Geralt asked, genuinely curious.

“There is something that drives both of you; while men such as myself, and countless others wouldn't have dreamed of refusing such an offer, the throne was never something that Cirilla strove towards. And power doesn't concern you in the slightest either, from what I have seen,” Morvran says, and gestures to Geralt. “A thing both of you have in common.”

“What are you getting at?”

“From what I have heard and what I have seen, both of you are idealists of a kind; you--”

“Idealists?” Geralt interrupted incredulously, and laughed, “Hardly.”

“No?” Morvran questioned, and continued, “And yet, from all that I have heard, you have high expectations of both your friends and the people around you; you expect them to behave with some manner of honor, and from you, Cirilla has learned to do the same.”

Geralt shifted a bit. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Morvran nodded agreeably, “No, there is not; it means that those who would call her ally or swear loyalty strive to meet her expectations. But understanding you- or at least trying to understand you has helped me better understand Cirilla.”

“We are not the same person,” Geralt said icily. Morvran raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Of course you aren’t--but one cannot help but take their cues from those that raised them.” Morvran fell silent after that, before he wished Geralt a good night, and went to his tent. They hadn’t quite traveled alone; Morvran had brought his squires and two servants, though Geralt had to insist they stay behind while the two of them hunted monsters.

Geralt was surprised when he acquiesced to her demands with surprisingly little fuss; usually nobles couldn’t do without their servants or luxuries, even in the wild. But she had forgotten, if only for a time, that Morvran  _ was _ a general; the army did not always have the resources to support that kind of extravagance.

Morvran had given her much to think on, though his words did nothing to quell her anger. But that was something Geralt had to take up with Emhyr; there was no use to Morvran getting caught in the crossfire, and she was reluctantly starting to like him. He was sensible, as so few aristocrats were, and was genuine in his desire to learn about and understand Ciri.

They reached the village by noon of the next day; the ride back to the village was uneventful, and there were even hints of wildlife coming back to the area now that the wyverns were dead. The ealdorman gave Geralt the full of the agreed upon price, and they were able to make it back to the Progress by early afternoon; just in time for lunch.

Morvran graciously invited her to share a meal with him, but Geralt declined; she made up something about needing to prep the wyvern organs she’d harvested for potions, and he let her go before she provided any details.  Geralt had kept some wyvern pieces for decoctions, which was true but they didn’t require special preparation to be used; Geralt just needed to see Emhyr as soon as possible. She helped Morvran oversee the delivery of the hide to the tanners before leaving to see the Emperor; Geralt just gave them a few tips on how to cure wyvern hide so that they could use it to replace old leather, and create some wyvern skin shoes for anyone who wanted them. 

Geralt parted ways with him shortly after that, and headed straight for the Emperor’s tent. 

Although tent might be an understatement for the collection of pavilions and elaborate huts that comprised the royal retinue. Geralt knew where she was going, however, and made a bee-line straight for Mererid, who was just escorting another aristocrat out of the tent.

“I need to speak to His Majesty at his earliest convenience, Mererid,” Geralt said as she walked up to him, loudly enough that Emhyr should have heard it inside the tent. Mererid looked at Geralt cooly.

“I am afraid His Majesty is--”

“Let her in,” Emhyr interrupted. Mererid stopped, and took it in stride, wordlessly leading her inside the tent. She hadn’t really been expecting Emhyr to see her immediately, but sooner is better than later. 

The inside of his tent was spacious, lavish and luxurious-- and yet also practical, with every entrance and exit covered and guarded. Emhyr was sitting in the center of it all, with two aides and a scribe sitting off to the side, holding portable writing desks and the like. The Emperor was at his desk, reading and signing papers; he was dressed minimally, in a black surcoat with red accents. 

He was a hard man to read, and yet... Geralt could sense he was stressed, somehow.

Once they had neared his desk, Mererid announced her, “Your Imperial Majesty, Geralt of Rivia.” Emhyr looked up from his papers wordlessly. Geralt got the hint. 

“I’d like to know why you’re meddling in my affairs.” Geralt said coolly, forcibly restraining herself from crossing her arms over her chest, and stood there. 

Emhyr set aside the papers he was holding, and picked up a new stack; it looked like reports from scouts, but Geralt couldn’t really tell; her written Nilfgaardian wasn’t as good as her spoken. 

“It is obvious to anyone with eyes you needed some kind of outlet, and General Voorhis was equally obviously curious about you; the woman his bride-to-be considers the closest thing to a mother. It seemed that your interests and his could align, if the situation was handled properly.”

Geralt still stood there, her rage down to a simmer rather than a full boil, and stared at him wordlessly. Emhyr sighed imperceptibly, and put his pen down. He folded his hands together, and looked her squarely in the eyes. 

“You are upset not because the choice was taken from you—because it has not been—but because someone you do not care for can read you to the point of pinpointing what you need rather than what you want.”

“Your interference wasn't necessary,” She said lowly, her eyes meeting his gaze head on. “Contrary to whatever you believe, I  _ can _ control myself.”

“Perhaps,” Emhyr said, as he turned back to his papers, “Had I not interfered, however, you would have left to do something that your frustration would have demanded, and gotten yourself hurt at best, killed at worst. And Cirilla does not need your death on top of the other changes in her life right now.”  

Geralt glared at him. “I would never do anything that would endanger Ciri--”

“Then, for once, do not be reckless,” Emhyr interrupted, glaring back at her. “You are many things, witcher, but you are not stupid, and neither are you simple, despite what you would like others to believe. Now,  _ act it. _ ” And then he dismissed  her with a nod to Mererid, who ushered her out promptly. 

Geralt resisted the urge to stamp like a child outside his tent, but that didn’t stop her from swearing a blue streak at him under her breath as she walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/kudo! They are much appreciated!
> 
> I didn't think that Morvran would be this interesting, but he's not as bad as I thought he'd be! I'm kind of enjoying writing him. 
> 
> Now, if only Emhyr would cooperate....


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, then drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am on a roll. Let's hope it keeps up, because my muse is rocking this.

Another two months had passed, and Geralt stopped one day, and looked towards the east. They had been traveling southward now, towards Ard Carraigh, but Geralt always knew where Kaer Morhen was.

“We’re near Kaer Morhen,” She said softly. Dandelion looked at her quizzically.

“What of it, Geralt?” Zoltan said bluntly from atop his pony.

“It’s been almost a year since Vesemir died, Zoltan. It’s almost been a year,” Geralt said quietly, before turning Roach eastward. “Dandelion, Zoltan, let Ciri know where I’m going. I’ll meet back up with the Progress in around a month’s time,” Geralt said, and spurred Roach into a gallop. Dandelion yelped in confusion, but Geralt saw Zoltan nod in acknowledgement as she rode away.

It was a long ride, but it was a necessary one; Geralt made camp sparingly, and rested only as often as Roach required before continuing on the trek. It was only a few days until she reached Kaer Morhen, and she’d managed to get there before the anniversary of the battle.

The damage from the Wild Hunt was extensive; the Hunt had been ruthless and relentless, and the it showed on the walls of the keep. It was hard, to see all of Kaer Morhen, and remember the battle that was ultimately lost, and Vesemir’s death.

He’d died a hero. But she’d wished he’d never died at all.

The gate was no longer secure, but there was shelter, at least, in the main hall. Two days into her stay at Kaer Morhen--on the day of Vesemir’s death--there was the sound of two more horses coming up the path in the late afternoon.

She’d started working on some repairs to the gate house, when she heard Lambert and Eskel.

“Is that Roach?”

“If Roach’s here, so’s Geralt. I wonder where she is?” Geralt leaned over to see Eskel dismounting Scorpion, as Lambert investigated what was left of the stables. Roach was pretty happy; she’d put her in the least damaged one, and Lambert was looking at the other ones speculatively.

“Up here, boys,” Geralt called out, before scaling down the side of the wall on the jury-rigged pulley system she created to get the debris that could be used later off of the wall.

“Wolf,” Eskel greeted with a nod, and Geralt smiled as she clasped his arm.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring Keira, Lambert,” Geralt said, as she slapped him on the back. Lambert only started forward a little at the blow, but he was quick to retort.

“She’s safe enough; didn’t want to come back here, and I understood why.”

“Well, it’s good to see the both of you, anyways. Come on, lunch should be done by now; you can tell me what you lot have been up to since the last time we spoke,” Geralt said, leading them into the main hall.

She’d hunted a deer the evening before, and was in the process of cleaning the hide and drying the meat when they had dropped in, so there was plenty for three hungry witchers.

“Using the Sun while you got it?” Eskel questioned as he put down his gear. He went straight for the pot, giving it a stir.

“Have you ever thought about giving up being a witcher, Geralt? Being a kept woman might suit you better,” Lambert taunted as he investigated the hides Geralt had left to cure. He yelped when Geralt threw an antler at his head, and turned to glare at her.

She snorted derisively, and took some of the meat from the drying racks, “I have _standards_ of living, Lambert; just because you like being a slob, doesn’t mean I do. Eskel, can you add that bottle of wine next to you to the pot? I’ll need to make extra for you lot.”

Lambert went ahead and investigated the other things Geralt had set up; his crow of laughter as he saw his still was up and running was loud and brought a bit of a smirk to his face.

“We can get _royally_ drunk now, you realize that?” he cried out jubilantly as he instantly started fiddling with it.

“Don’t mess with it too much, it’s in the process of making--” Geralt was interrupted by a loud hiss and gust of steam as Lambert yelped and jumped out of the way, “...White Gull.” Geralt shook her head as Lambert cursed a storm, but turned back to the food.

Thankfully, the stew was almost ready, and Geralt got out the travel bread she’d bought along the way.

“I hope you lot brought food, too; the garden doesn’t have much, and I didn’t bring enough food to feed three witchers,” Geralt said as she set the food on the main table. “Lambert, make yourself useful and get some dishes and spoons, would you?”

Lambert grumbled, but acquiesced. Eskel sidled up to her as she was putting everything down. “We bought some food coming in, and more booze,” He said, watching as she put everything down, “I take it that everything went well with Ciri? She’s safe?”

“She’s with her father, yes; the Wild Hunt was defeated, as was the White Frost,” Geralt said shortly, before sighing. “Sorry, Eskel, I’m not angry at you.” He waved it off.

“Better me than Lambert,” Eskel only said, “How long have you been here?”

Geralt shrugged. “I only got here two days ago. Been poking around, seeing how bad the damage is. It’s not too terrible; most of it’s what we did; collapsing arches to block the hunt, the witcher traps...but it’s fixable. It’ll take coin and it’ll take men, but it’s fixable.”

“You’re looking to fix the place up,” Eskel said, audibly surprised, “Why now?”

Geralt looked at him quizzically. “Vesemir was spearheading the repairs before; I always sent him coin when I could to help support him, but I could hardly come back and help while hunting for Ciri, now could I?” Geralt looked away. “Besides, Kaer Morhen is home. It’s a home for witchers, and I intend on it staying that way.” Lambert yelled in triumph from somewhere in the back of the hall, before stumbling out with an armful bowls, mugs and all manner of cutlery.

“Did you have to bring out half the kitchen with you?” Geralt said laughingly as she went to help.

“Better than not having something you need-- who knows with the shit you cook up,” Lambert retorted, but passed her around half the armful. They somehow both made it to the table without dropping anything on the ground, but it was a close thing.

“That’s right, keep talking shit to your host; we’ll see who ends up with lizards in their bed,” Geralt replied, but they finally managed to sit down for a meal. It wasn’t bad, either; simple stuff, but it’s not like there was a lot of spices and herbs to be found, especially since the garden wasn’t giving much.

But it was food, and Geralt had been looking forward to it.

“Not bad, for a beginner,” Lambert said as he uncorked a bottle of ale and topped up their mugs.

Geralt snorted, “Better than anything _you_ could make, Lambert, you burn _water_.” Eskel grimaced but nodded at the memory. “Anyways, what have you two been up to this past year?”

They talked shop over what had basically become dinner, switching topics only when the alcohol made an appearance. Topics ranged far and wide the drunker they got, until Lambert finally got to what was bothering him.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting you to be here, Geralt,” Lambert said, on his fourth mug, “Keira talked with Yennefer; she said you were on some big _Progress_ with Ciri. Didn’t think you would have time for us anymore now that you’re back being a pet witcher.”

Geralt sat up straight despite the hum of alcohol in her veins. “The _fuck_ did you just call me, Lambert?” Geralt said dangerously. Eskel looked between the two of them, and wisely backed away, hugging his mug protectively.

Lambert continued obliviously. “You’re a pet witcher now, but I have no clue who owns you, since you and Yen broke up. But you’re just living in luxury, traveling the continent in the company of royalty-- Wait, is that who’s got you now? You under Emhyr--” Lambert didn’t get another word out before Geralt dove over the table, going for his throat.  

Drinks were spilled and bottles broken, much to Eskel’s dismay, as Geralt and Lambert tussled. Geralt got in a few good blows, catching Lambert in the eye, and in the shoulder, but Lambert gave as good as he got, hitting her in the ribs and bruising her cheek badly.

They finally separated back on different sides of the table to nurse their wounds. Geralt fished some cold bottles of cider and tossed one to Lambert, before using the other on her cheek.

“What was that about?” Lambert groused as he caught the bottle just in time, “You’ve never objected before!”

“ _That_ was when it was by choice!” Geralt snarled, “I didn’t travel around half the damn continent for _fun_ , Lambert! I’m doing it because I _can’t cast Quen._ ”

There was silence as Lambert and Eskel’s eyes widened.

“Are...Are you sure?” Eskel asked hesitantly. Lambert was still staring at her.

“Yes,” Geralt said viciously, “I am _very_ sure.”

“How?” Lambert finally asked, and Geralt. Well. She just told the whole damn thing.

How she’d bonded with Ciri, how that bond had been broken; how Geralt had renewed that bond for one moment, just long enough for her to protect Ciri.

“You _idiot_!” Lambert yelled. Eskel was pacing, silently, but angrily.

“There was no other option,” Geralt retorted, “I wasn’t about to let Ciri face the bloody White Frost on her own!”

“So you poisoned yourself and nearly gave yourself permanent brain damage? Oh, _that’s_ okay?”

“I’m alive! I’m here!”

“But you’re not whole,” Eskel interjected. “There’s more. Why can’t you cast Quen?”

Geralt tuned Lambert’s ranting out as she focused on Eskel. “I don’t know. All I know is that whenever I try, there’s almost unbearable pain, and the magic flows into a void.”  
  
“Lambert, quit shouting. Have you heard of anything like this?” Eskel asked as he dragged Lambert back into his seat.

“No, I haven’t, I’m not the expert on witcher lore here, that’s Vese-” Lambert cut himself off. “That was Vesemir’s job,” he continued raggedly.

“I have a lead on fixing this,” Geralt said before they could get any further, “And she could know more about what’s going on-- the only problem is that I have to find her first.”

“Oh, yeah? And just who is ‘she’?” Lambert asked.

“The Lady of the Lake,” Geralt said simply.

Lambert blinked, clueless. “Who?”

“Wait, you told me about her,” Eskel said, “You said she named you one of her knights?”

“She named me _champion_ , Eskel. And she’s as old as the Earth we walk on. I think she’ll know what to do,” Geralt replied, suddenly tired.

“And that’s why you're going on that Progress? To find her?” Lambert looked thoroughly confused, “How did Emhyr even agree to that? What did you and Ciri even do to convince him?”

Geralt laughed. “How did he agree...? _Emhyr_ suggested the Progress, then promptly threw it together in three days. I had very little choice. And we convinced him by arguing in front of him, of all things.”

“Huh,” Lambert said, “Don’t you think that’s a little weird though?”

“He would do a lot for Ciri--I bet this doesn’t even reach the top ten of the things he’d least want to do if it kept her happy or safe,” Geralt said flatly.

Eskel looked at her pensively. “Why are you here alone then? Why isn’t Ciri here, along with that Progress?”

“Nope, we are too sober for this. Drink up, gents,” Geralt said, and she topped up all their mugs, and threw it back. Eskel and Lambert exchanged glances before shrugging, and following suit.

“Alright,” Eskel said before wiping his mouth on his arm, “Now, why isn’t Ciri here?”

Geralt groaned a little, and looked away. “I may have...not told her. That I was coming here. I know the route of the Progress; I’ll only be staying here a few more days before I have to go and head south to catch up with them, but I have the route I’ll need to go anyways. And Dandelion and Zoltan should definitely have let her know by now where I went.”

“I’m surprised she’s not here already,” Lambert said as he sat back, and downed the rest of a bottle. Geralt shook her head.

“She’s got too many responsibilities now, and she has a lot to learn. I didn’t want to distract her.”

“You’re still thinking of her though,” Eskel nodded towards the corner, where some fruits and herbs from the garden lay, “You gonna make something to take with you?”

Geralt smiled wryly. “I never could get much past you, could I, Eskel? Yeah, I’m bringing what little from the gardens and orchards there is back for her. I think it’d lighten her spirits a bit.”

“Well, there’s still the, heh, _still_ ; you could make something with that to bring back to her as a consolation,” Lambert said, and gestured with a new bottle of wine at the still. Geralt tilted her head.

“You know, Lambert, that’s not a terrible idea. I’ll try it in the morning, though when we’re all a little more sober, and unlikely to blow ourselves up,” Geralt said as she staggered up from the table, and headed to the tower. “Don’t get yourselves killed, boys.” Lambert didn’t respond, but Eskel waved her off with a hand. And Geralt took the hint and called it a night.

* * *

 

Her life come morning was full of regrets, but she wasn’t _nearly_ as miserable as Lambert and Eskel was; they’d apparently gone on to drink until the wee hours of the morning, and neither had bothered to take the necessary precautions.

Geralt took perverse pleasure in seeing them moan and groan like little children as she made all the noise she could while preparing breakfast. Their death threats and moans of agony were like music to her ears. Only after it was fully underway, and the fruits and herbs were set to infuse into the alcohol, did Geralt take pity on them and place a waterskin and a Golden Oriole in front of each of them.

“You are an evil, evil person,” Lambert said as he finally managed to claw himself back onto the table. Eskel just groaned.

“That’s no concern of mine,” Geralt said smugly. “Anyways, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow to head back and meet up with Ciri; just thought I’d let you both know.”

“Yeah? Well good riddance,” Lambert grumbled, hugging his bowl of porridge closer.

Eskel looked at her blearily, “Do you want us to come with you?”

“He has an appointment to keep, I believe,” Geralt said, pointing at Lambert, “I’ll be fine, Eskel, I got here without any issue; I’ll get back just the same.”

“If you say so.”

Geralt spent the next two days preparing for the trip; the infused gin and vodka for Ciri would take longer, but Geralt figured she could finish those on the road.

She, Lambert, and Eskel got shitfaced-drunk on the day before she left on the remnants of the alcohol she wasn’t giving to Ciri, and it seemed like too much of a waste to just use it in potions and decoctions. Geralt left the two of them to nurse their hangovers on their own as she headed out at dawn, cutting through forested areas and taking shortcuts when she could.

It took her about two weeks to follow the path of the Progress, and finally, catch up. There were no signs of any large lakes with an isle in the middle, but then again, Geralt wasn’t expecting any. By the beginning of the third week, Geralt could see the banners from a distance; she’d joined up with the rest of them by that afternoon.

“Geralt! You’re back!” Zoltan noticed her first; Dandelion was busy with an absolutely enraptured audience of young noblemen and women, though he waved once he saw Gealt pass by. She had dismounted by then and joined Zoltan where he was sitting, watching Dandelion wrap the crowd around his little finger.

“Good to see you, Zoltan,” Geralt said, “I see Dandelion’s been keeping busy.”

“Oh, aye, he’s been finding inspiration in all sorts of places,” Zoltan said, wiggling his eyebrows. Geralt laughed and passed him one of the spicy vodkas.

“Made this while I was at Kaer Morhen- some of the peppers had survived, and I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, really?” Zoltan took it enthusiastically, and broke the wax seal, and took a long whiff-- only to choke a little at the intensity, “Oh, aye, this will certainly go well with some Mahakaman spirit-- much thanks, Geralt, the boys and I will have some fun with this.” Zoltan was grinning as he put the bottle away, and Geralt just smirked, and took out another bottle--this time for Dandelion.

“Make sure Dandelion gets this one; let him know it could stand another week or so of infusion, but I doubt it’ll last that long. Anyways, see you Zoltan,” Geralt waved a goodbye as she went off to find Ciri.

It wasn’t that hard to find her, actually; she was with Morvran, and from what Geralt could hear of the conversation, they were discussing horse breeds, and the pros and cons of different breeds. Geralt steeled her nerves and approached them cautiously; surprisingly, it was Morvran who noticed her first.

“Ah, Geralt, you’ve returned!” Ciri turned to face Geralt at that, and she waved feebly.

“General, Ciri,” Geralt greeted, and stepped forward towards them. Ciri crossed her arms and waited. _Shit. She’s mad._

“Well?” Ciri demanded once Geralt got close enough, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Geralt pursed her lips. “Ciri, I’m _fine_. I don’t need babysitting, and I wasn’t alone at Kaer Morhen anyways- Lambert and Eskel were both there as well.”

“You could have at least told me in person, instead of making Zoltan do it!” Ciri took a deep breath, and visibly calmed herself down. “Did you even think of inviting me as well?”

“Ciri, you’ve got a lot of responsibilities here, I didn’t want to add to them,” Geralt said, and started to rummage through the bag she had brought with her, “Besides, I made you this there.” Geralt pulled out one of the sweet gins she’d infused with apple, berries and rosemary, and handed it to her.

Ciri took it, unwillingly curious. “You realize this doesn’t get you off the hook, right?”

“Just try it.” Ciri rolled her eyes, but broke the wax seal, and took a swig from the bottle. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and she looked at the bottle.

“That’s very smooth,” she commented, “Apple, raspberry, and... rosemary?”

“Good, yeah? Some things survived in the garden and orchard at Kaer Morhen- it seemed like a waste not to use any of it,” Geralt explained, “I managed to make six bottles of the stuff-- two went to Dandelion and Zoltan, but the rest is for you.”

Ciri just kind of looked at Geralt with a flat sort of expression, before she sighed and relaxed. “Alright, alright, it worked. You’re forgiven.”

“Is that some kind of liquor?” Morvran asked, and both Geralt and Ciri jumped a little-- they’d both quite forgotten that he was there.

“Ah, yes, Geralt infuses liquor in her spare time,” Ciri explained, “If I had to guess, this particular bottle is gin, and she infused it with apples, raspberries and rosemary.”

Morvran looked impressed, and turned to Geralt. She just shrugged. “It’s a little like alchemy, and witcher senses keep me from poisoning anyone by accident.”

“So it’s perfectly safe, even for regular humans to drink?”

“Most are,” Geralt said, agreeably, “But the spicy ones I make can be a little too intense straight- even Zoltan, who loves the stuff, dilutes it with other dry spirits.”

“Very interesting,” Morvran said, and he looked intrigued, “Do you make these often?”

“For special occasions mostly; fruit and spices are expensive, after all,” Geralt replied, before handing the bag full of bottles to Ciri, “They’re wrapped in deerskin, and the one with the red wax is the spicy-sour vodka, the one in the white wax is a warming, sweet brandy, while the last blue wax is another sweet gin.”

Ciri grabbed the bag enthusiastically with her empty hand; even Morvran was eyeing the bottles with undisguised interest. Ciri noticed, and turned to him. “Don’t worry, we can share a bottle over dinner,” She assured him, before heading off to her tent. When she was finally gone, Geralt turned to him sharply.

“Looks like you two are getting along,” Geralt said neutrally.

“She is a remarkable young woman, Geralt. One I am glad to have gotten to know,” Morvran said, with fond smile as he watched her leave. “She and I will wed, once this Progress has finished, and we are back at Nilfgaard, and while at first I thought that this Progress was a waste of time-- I am glad that it helped me see her as she truly is.” Morvran bowed to Geralt politely, and turned to leave-- but not before Geralt warned,

“If you hurt her in any way, I’ve got a blade with your name on it.” Morvran smiled and waved an acknowledgement as he walked away, and Geralt supposed she had to be satisfied with that.

“Ser Geralt!” A very familiar, very dreaded voice called out, and Geralt barely stifled a groan. She’d been assigned a lady’s maid to make sure that she wasn't underfoot, or in the way, or too disheveled while the Progress was underway.

“Yes, Isa?” Geralt said as she turned to face her. Isa had been recruited at the beginning of the Progress at Vizima; she was a war orphan who’d grown up taking care of others, and she was hired on as a seamstress initially in Vizima, before she was assigned by Mererid to Geralt. Though Isa stood a good foot shorter than Geralt, what she lacked in stature, she made up in personality.

“Look at you, you’re a mess!” Isa exclaimed, before coming close and picking at Geralt’s travel worn clothes. “I’ll get a bath ready for you; you’ve been summoned for dinner tonight with His Majesty and Her Highness, and we’ve not much time to get you ready.” Geralt froze in horror.

“You’ve got to be joking, I’m invited to _dinner_? Why?”

“It’s not my place to know what goes through His Imperial Majesty’s mind,” Isa said primly as she efficiently tied her black, wild curls back away from her face. “Now, do I have to push you or will you go willingly?” Geralt raised her hands in surrender; she had learned the hard way that Isa would, and could fight dirty in an effort to get her charge ready for formal events.

Thankfully, Isa had given up on making Geralt wear dresses early on-- instead, her formal wear consisted of clean shirts and richly decorated vests, with equally decorated trousers and sashes. Ciri had quickly followed suit, and trousers were now the height of fashion for Nilfgaardian women; Ciri, of course, had to wear dresses when greeting local nobility, but when she was dining with simply Emhyr? Her wardrobe seamlessly switched to long tunics and trousers.

One bath later, and Geralt was shoved into the fanciest of her fancy clothes, and was even made up a little, at Isa’s urging. Geralt still drew the line at jewelry and rouge.

That was how Geralt ended up sharing a meal with all of the aristocrats and nobility in the Progress. Geralt got a glimpse of Ciri’s expression before it had smoothed out to polite interest, and she had been slightly apologetic at the sight of Geralt sandwiched between two nobles. Thankfully, the two nobles took the sensible route and ignored her entirely through out the dinner, and Geralt was able to quietly eat her food, before excusing herself at the first opportunity.

The cool night air was a blessing on her nose; the amount of perfume the nobles applied was giving her the worst kind of migraine, which did nothing for her apetite. Geralt busied herself unbuttoning and unclasping the tight collar and wrists of her shirt as she walked back to her tent; she had some of the rations she made while travelling, which would make up for the absurdly small portions at dinner.

“Isa, why do you keep putting me in new shirts? The collars and cuffs are too stiff, I--oh,” Geralt started, but stopped at the state of her tent.

It was absolutely _ransacked_. Alchemy ingredients were everywhere, the walls of the tent were smeared with blade oils, potions were broken on the ground, the bed was overturned, her chest where her armor and clothes were was opened, and all the valuables were gone. Even her damned _silver sword_. Geralt could only stare in shock for a moment before reason set in, and she surveyed the wreckage for tracks.

The thieves weren’t subtle, and they weren’t smart; they’d left tracks everywhere, and had stepped into some potions. There was no subtlety, no finesse; this was an amateur job, and Geralt meant to find the perpetrator.

As she stormed out of the tent, she ran into Isa, who was very surprised to see her.

“Oh, Ser Geralt! I thought you’d still be at dinner,” Isa said, confusion clear in her voice. Geralt stared at her for a moment, but-- no. She was surprised, not nervous, and there was no sign of any potions on her shoes or on her dress.

“The tent was raided and ransacked; there are potions and oils everywhere. The idiots who did it are lucky they didn’t set off any of the bombs,” Geralt said angrily, running a hand through her hair.

Isa’s eyes went wide. “Who’d dare steal from a witcher?” she gasped.

“That’s what I aim to find out,” Geralt said grimly, “Don’t touch any of the mess in there right now, and let Mererid know what happened. I’ve got thieves to track down.”

“Yes, ser, of course!” Isa said, and with a curtsy, ran back to the Royal pavilion.  

She tracked the trail out into the forest, in the direction of the nearby village; she didn’t have to go far. The idiots had taken her alcohol and had gotten _drunk_ on it. There was no sign of her armor or her swords, so they must have gotten to the local blacksmith, and sold it there.

No matter. Three drunk men were no match for a witcher, even unarmed.

Geralt used Axii to get one of them out of sight of the others; she then promptly knocked him out. She did the same to his two friends, but then had the unsavory job of dragging all three back to camp.

She managed, somehow. She always did.

She dragged one man, and used Axii on the other to carry his friend, and all four of them walked laboriously back to the Progress. Geralt was surprised to see Mererid and Morvran there, waiting for her, with a small squadron of guards.

As soon as he saw Geralt and company, Mererid disappeared, while Morvran stepped forward.

“These are the perpetrators, then?” He asked impassively, before motioning the guard to take them into custody.

“These are the _tools_ , yes,” Geralt said tiredly, “The mastermind is still at large, because these three were stupid enough to stay and get drunk on witcher alcohol.”

“Will they survive the night?”

Geralt smiled a little maliciously, “They’ll live, though they’ll wish they hadn’t.”

Mererid interrupted them with a soft cough. “His Majesty will see you now, ” Mererid said quietly, before leading them towards the main tent.

Isa was there as well, surprisingly; she looked a little ill, actually, but Geralt couldn’t pay that any attention now. Geralt flashed her what she hoped was a reassuring smile, before entering the tent.

“You cannot help but be at the center of trouble, can you, witcher?” Emhyr said, before he dismissed all but Geralt, Ciri and Morvan. “You’ve caught the perpetrators?”

“They’re in your guard’s custody," Geralt said, placing her hands on her hips. "They should be conscious by morning.”

Emhyr tilted his head as he scrutinized her. “There’s more.”

“I told General Voorhis already,” Geralt said, jerking her head at Morvran, “But these men are too stupid to have thought of this on their own. They stole from me when I would least expect it, and yet left tracks that even a regular human could find; and they took everything. I would expect them to go after my money and my supplies, but they took my books, my alchemical ingredients-- anything that could be used, they took, and what they couldn’t use, they smashed.”

“That would have been...explosive,” Ciri commented, her eyes wide. Geralt nodded grimly.

“Except they didn’t smash the bombs-- they stole them.”

“This was a targeted strike, then.” Geralt could see the cogs in Emhyr’s brain going, and the conclusions she’d reached on the walk back here.

“Someone’s trying to steal a page from your book-- and make it look like a witcher did it, to boot,” Geralt said, feeling a little sick. She would have been the perfect scapegoat, had she not left the dinner when she did; the tracks would have been too muddied up by foot traffic after dinner.

“How many saw you return with the thieves?” Emhyr asked abruptly.

“Oh, no,” Geralt murmured, “General, where is general custody for criminals?”

Morvran looked at Geralt grimly, “At the western edge of camp,” was all he said before he left the tent, Geralt following closely behind, almost sprinting towards the prisons.

They were too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, comments and kudos are appreciated! I'd love to have you scream at me about all things, you can find me at misakikaito.tumblr.com !


	7. Chapter 7

“Three dead bodies, and a village that needs questioning come morning,” Geralt muttered under her breath as she walked back towards Emhyr’s tent. Morvran stayed behind to question guards and witnesses for anything out of the ordinary. While he was doing that, Geralt had examined the bodies.

Cause of death: Last Breath. Highly effective, but also fairly common poison- all it needed was one small cut or prick, and it killed them by suffocating them on their own vomit. It could have been done at any time, as well; no one was really paying attention when they were brought into the prison, and the watch wasn’t as attentive as it could have been.

The guards at Emhyr’s tent let her in without a word. Emhyr and Ciri both looked at her expectantly.

Geralt shook her head. “They’re dead, all three of them.”

“How?” Ciri asked.

“They were poisoned with Last Breath. You’ve heard of it?” Geralt turned her attention back to Emhyr.

“Yes, it is popular among assassins, though the antidote is simple and easy to procure,” Emhyr said, “Where is the general?”

“Questioning the guardsman,” Geralt said shortly, before taking a seat across from Emhyr.

“So what should we do?” Ciri asked, looking between Geralt and Emhyr, “The next step of action would be to question the villagers, but what if they don’t know anything?”

“The problem is that the Progress isn’t exactly secure,” Geralt said, “People are hired on and leaving all the time, and that goes for guardsmen to cooks to servants.”

“Yes, only the higher ranking servant and nobility travel with us,” Emhyr said.

“So we know that they stole witcher ingredients, recipes for bombs and potions, and most of your gear? Where could it have gone?” Ciri asked, standing up and beginning to pace herself. Emhyr’s eyes flickered to her, and then back to Geralt.

Emhyr shook his head. “I have already dispatched a squadron to secure the village; in the morning you will go retrieve your equipment, except--”

“Except for my recipes and bombs, yes, I realize,” Geralt interrupted, “The mastermind will have either secreted them away, or just run off with them.” Geralt sighed. “I know the recipes by heart, so it isn’t any real loss; I have to rebuild my stock of alchemical supplies to remake them, and that will take a while, but no one should touch the mess in my tent with bare hands.”

“You will be compensated your losses,” Emhyr said as he pulled out a sheaf of paper, “And a new living area will be set up for you nearer to the center of camp.”

“No need,” Geralt refused, “At least, not yet. I need to burn the remnants tomorrow; I can just meditate until dawn and figure it out from there.” With that, Geralt stood, sketched a bow, and left in the direction of what used to be her tent, hyper aware of the gaze following her out.

Geralt found an open fire by the servants area of the camp, unceremoniously knelt there, and meditated until dawn. When she opened her eyes, the fire had died down to embers, and dawn was just breaking. The servants were all just waking up, so Geralt took the time to go and finish the cleanup of her tent.

She took out only the things that she absolutely needed; her brewing kit, which was surprisingly intact, the whetstones for her swords, any glass bottles that hadn’t been smashed before taking the canvas, and putting it on the mess and setting the whole thing ablaze with a well placed Igni, before using Aard to freeze the remnants.

“Ser Geralt?” She turned to see Isa behind her, a bundle of cloth in her grasp, “I have some clothes for you if you’d like? The Emperor arranged for a new wardrobe for you, but it will be some time before it is all finished.”

Geralt sighed. “Thank you, Isa,” Geralt gestured to the now frozen mess, “The tent is now safe to touch and dispose of; the oils have been consumed, and any poisonous substances were rendered inert by the flames. The ashes and remnants should be buried away from any water sources or rivers, just in case.”

Isa dropped into a half-curtsy, “Of course,” and handed the bundle off to Geralt before going out to find someone to help her deal with the mess. Geralt just shook her head as she looked at the bundle, and headed off to find Roach.

Thankfully, he was undisturbed, and her saddlebags were equally untouched; Geralt shoved the clothes in there, saddled Roach, and set off to the nearby village. She made a round on that small camp she found the men in, but there was nothing here but broken bottles and half-eaten food.

Geralt continued on until she reached the village--Eldean, she thought it was called?-- and went on a hunt for the blacksmith immediately. The Nilfgaardian soldiers had formed a perimeter around the villager; though they let Geralt through without a fuss, any villager who tried to leave was not so fortunate.

It was fairly easy to find the blacksmith; the clang of iron on anvil was distinctive, and Geralt only had to use her ears to find the origin. It was a humble, small forge, but this was a fairly small village; the only reason the Progress stopped here at all was because of the river, and the landscape.  Geralt found that the village blacksmith turned out to be a dwarf, who took one look at Geralt, and promptly stopped what he was doing, and went straight to the back of his workshop.

“The name’s Colu Tohbard, at your service,” he yelled from the back, before grunting as he shoved things around, “I thought a witcher would be coming by for their stuff,” he said, almost effortlessly hauling over her leather armor, boots, gauntlets and swords, “The idiots who came in trying to peddle this to me were drunker than a bee on mead, and took the first price I gave. I’ll give ‘em back for twenty crowns.”

“Done,” Geralt said immediately, handing over the coin.

Colu looked at the armor speculatively, “Might I know the name of the owner of such fine gear?”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Ah, so you’re _that_ witcher, eh?” Colu grinned. “Send my regards to Zoltan, would you?”

Geralt startled a bit as she put her armor in Roach’s saddlebags, “You and he know each other, then?”

“Oh, we knew each other back in the day. He always had a good head on his shoulders. Take care now, Geralt.” Colu waved as he went back to his forge, whistling one of Dandelion’s tunes.  Geralt shook her head at her good fortune, and took her time going back to the progress; she stopped frequently to pick what herbs she saw, and that slowed her down significantly.

By the time she made it back, it was late afternoon and Geralt was _starving_. A quick look around the cooking area revealed that there wasn’t much left from lunch, which wasn’t unusual-- and then Isa caught her poking around.

“Ser Geralt, I saved you lunch!” Isa greeted as she came close and motioned for Geralt to follow her, “It’s waiting in your new tent; the Emperor has been especially generous, and I hope that everything is to your liking,” Isa went on to say as she led Geralt deeper into the camp.

“What do you mean by ‘everything’, Isa, a simple meal will d-” Geralt started to say, but was stunned into silence at the sight that greeted her.

She’d expected one of the standard soldier tents; she’d been hoping that she would have been placed at the edge of camp like she was before, but no. Now she’s almost directly next to the Royal Pavilion, with an equally ostentatious tent. As Geralt got closer, she could see the wards woven into the oiled canvas and rope, and the runes of power sewn in as well.

“That’s a small fortune in canvas,” Geralt muttered. Unfortunately, Isa heard her.

“As I said, His Majesty has been most generous!” She clapped her hands in glee as she moved the flap. The interior was spacious and richly furnished, and Geralt balked at the luxury.

“This is all going to get ruined the minute I start making potions and decoction, I hope you realize that, Isa?” Geralt said almost desperately, but Isa would hear none of it.

“The quartermaster assured me that all of the equipment here was made with mages and sorceresses in mind, and would meet your needs.” There was even a full _tub_ in the back, with a screen for privacy.  

While Geralt stood there utterly bewildered, Isa bustled around the tent, setting down the frankly sumptuous looking meal at the low table to the side, and organizing small items here and there before turning to face Geralt once more. “I’ll leave you to eat and get settled in, Ser Geralt,” she said brightly, “If you need anything, be sure to let me know!” With that, she left Geralt in the middle of her new abode.

Geralt looked around, sighed, and investigated the tent thoroughly. Emhyr was generous enough to add an extensive alchemy lab, a place for her armor and a large chest with a lock on it that sparked and opened at Geralt’s touch. ‘Huh,’ Geralt thought, ‘Handy.’

The rest of the room was mundane, though there was a letter at the nightstand.

_Mistress Geralt,_

_Once you have entered this tent, you should smear a drop of blood on the runes at the entrance to bar any whom you have not invited either by word or in your company into your abode. Your lady’s maid, Isa, is already a part of the wards, and will include anyone you see fit._

_If you have any issues or problems, do let me know._

_Yours in service,_

_Quartermaster Talbot_

Well. It was more polite than many letters had been. Geralt followed the directions, cutting a finger on her sword before reaching up to the runes. The magic locked around her, somehow, memorizing the who and what she was before relaxing back to ambience.

Geralt shook her head before settling down to eat.

After she’d eaten and rested a bit, Geralt started working on rebuilding her stock of potions; the chest had quite a few supplies in it, and Geralt was able to cook up some Swallow, Tawny Owl and Golden Oriole. By the time she finished, it was late evening; the potions had required some extra time and attention, as Geralt was working with unfamiliar equipment. It was all high quality stuff though; Geralt was mildly surprised that Emhyr would go to this extent.

‘It was probably just the quartermaster and Isa’s doing,’ Geralt thought as she exited her tent, heading towards where Ciri would be. She caught her just as she was leaving her tent, and Ciri’s expression lit up when she caught sight of Geralt.

She waited patiently as Ciri excused herself, and came over. “Geralt! You look like you’re doing well,” Ciri said, and hugged her. Geralt returned the hug warmly.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got this fancy new tent you see, and it’s more like a small house,” Geralt said, “Did you have any part of that?” Ciri started walking towards the main dining tent, and flashed Geralt a wry smile.

“I may have enumerated to Papa the benefits of not having to stress about whether or not you’ll get stabbed in your sleep.”

Geralt rolled her eyes. “Well, at least it’s more protection for my things. You heading off to eat?” Geralt laughed as Ciri made a face.

“Dinner is more of a social hour and test of what I’ve learned,” Ciri said loftily, “I assume you’re going to find Zoltan and keep an eye on Dandelion?”

“You know it: damned bard can’t keep himself out of trouble for more than a day,” Geralt replied, bowing slightly to Ciri as she waved goodbye. Dinner with Zoltan and Dandelion was as raucous as ever; Zoltan had pulled together some contest with the vodka she’d infused, calling it ‘Dragon’s Breath’, and putting up a prize for whoever could down a shot of the undiluted stuff without choking.

So far? No one.

“Zoltan, I know I did _not_ give you that much alcohol,” Geralt said and grinned as she sat down beside her friend.

“Oh, I might’ve added a wee bit of this and that,” Zoltan said grinning, using his elbow to jostle Geralt a little.

“ _She_ made it?” One young man asked woozily; he was in noble clothing, obviously one of the youngsters at the Progress for the entertainment. “Tha’s not fair! You didn’t tell us it was _witcher_ booze.” Geralt was surprised he was so eloquent.

“That’s because it’s _not,_ ” Geralt said, amused, “It’s just very strongly infused.”

A flagon of ale was pushed down to Geralt, and she grabbed it and downed it easily. It was dark, sweet, and slightly bitter; perfect, really.

“I heard that your set fire to your own tent, eh Geralt?” Zoltan asked, taking a swig from his own mug. Geralt snorted.

“You could say that,” She hedged, taking another drink. “You could also say that I was burgled and my tent was vandalized.”

“ _What?_ ”  Zoltan slammed his mug down hard and stood, “Where are the buggers who did it, I’m going to--” He was working himself up to a right fury, before Geralt physically forced him to sit down.

“Zoltan, relax. It’s been taken care of,” Geralt said lowly, keenly aware of the eyes upon them. Zoltan huffed, thwarted.

“Aye, and did you give them a sound thrashing?”

“They’re dead.” Zoltan went quiet at that, and looked at Geralt a little uncertainly. “ _I_ didn’t do it, Zoltan; they were dead when we went to question them,” Geralt said exasperatedly.

“That’s fishy, Geralt.” Ah, Zoltan. As blunt as ever.

“You’re telling _me_ ,” Geralt muttered, and drank. They sat in a companionable silence for a time, listening to Dandelion sing a ballad about Priscilla and the Chameleon. It was certainly one way to advertise.

That reminded her. “Ey, Zoltan?”

“Mmh?”

“Colu Tohbard sends his regar-”

“Colu!” Zoltan shouted and stood up, “That rat bastard’s _here_?” Zoltan was grinning a little drunkenly as he stood there, staring at Geralt.

“I take it you know him then?” Geralt said wryly, amused.

“Do I _know-_ tha’s the man who helped train me! One of the best swords in a fight, and he was one of the best swordsmiths too,” Zoltan said fondly, “He’d gotten tired of fighting, though; just wanted to retire somewhere to ply his craft. Never thought I’d find him in a place like this though.”

Geralt hummed. “Think he’d be up for a commission?”

“Who knows? If ye ask politely, perhaps!” Zoltan said cheerily, “Want a top up?”

Geralt shook her head, “I’m done for tonight, Zoltan.” Geralt watched Zoltan shrug, get up, and stagger for a second before sheer bloody-minded determination forced him solidly on his feet. He then marched to a keg, got his drink-- and was promptly stolen away by a small mob of drunken dwarves. Geralt laughed at the sight, and stood.

Zoltan wouldn’t be able to extricate himself from _that_ group, and it was already fairly late; getting some more sleep couldn’t hurt, and she had that new bed to try out. So Geralt waved a goodbye in Zoltan’s general direction, and did the same for Dandelion, before heading back to her new tent.  The walk to her new tent was longer than she was used to, and the glares and stares of outright confusion unsettled her a little, but she ignored it the best she could.  

When she got to her tent, however, Geralt was surprised to see Mererid waiting.

“His Majesty wishes to see you, madam,” Mererid said stiffly before turning on his heel, and walking towards the Royal Pavilion. Geralt looked down at her stained, travel-worn clothes, shrugged, and followed.

Surprisingly, the captain of Emhyr’s guard was there as well- Alder? Ader?-- what ever his name entered the tent, and held it open for Mererid and Geralt.

After introductions were made, Captain Aledier (of the Third House of something something-- Geralt didn’t keep track), saluted and stood at ready. Geralt just looked at Emhyr.

“Captain, report,” Emhyr ordered. Geralt didn’t think it was possible, but the man stood _straighter._

“Your Imperial Majesty, I had the soldiers go around the village with sketches of the deceased; we were able to identify them quickly, but when we questioned the families they had no idea what these men had been up to, and what they were doing. They hadn’t been seen since two nights ago.”

“Do you believe that they were truthful?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aledier nodded, “There was no signs of any sudden increase in wealth or status in their homes, but neither did they look as if they were starving.”

Emhyr folded his hands. “Names and occupations.”

“Samuel Mill, farmer; Gorick Eignan, butcher; Erik Ullian, hunter.”

“There’s no common ground between the three of them. They said that the three men weren’t seen for the last two nights?” Geralt asked Aledier. He glanced at her, surprised, but nodded. “So something happened that either made them avoid their families-- or they were being paid to do something else. Like watch for when I rejoined camp?”

Emhyr leaned forward. “The Progress stopped here three days ago.”

“One day’s enough time to recruit spies,” Geralt pointed out, “You would know.” Emhyr’s lips twitched minutely at that.

“There are too many ways for information to spread as the Progress advances; we will have to settle with being vigilant. Captain, double the patrols, and recall your men from the village-- and send in Mererid.” Adelier saluted sharply, then left; a moment later, Mererid stood there.

“You requested me, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“We are advancing the Progress-- tomorrow we move on to Ban Glean.”

Mererid bowed. “As you wish, Your Imperial Majesty; arrangements shall be made,” he said, and backed out of the tent, leaving Geralt and Emhyr alone.

“You realize you’re painting a giant target on the traveling party, yes?” Emhyr shot Geralt a flat look. Geralt raised her hands in a placating gesture. “Just checking,” Geralt said, and left as well, heading back to her tent.

Tomorrow would be a long, long day. Packing days always were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More shenanigans! Also, another godling!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of the buffer chapters I'm afraid. It'll take me a bit longer to write the next one up.

Geralt was right. The next day dawned bright and clear and incredibly busy. The servants were packing up quickly and efficiently, and Morvran took the bulk of the nobles on a hunt to keep them out of the way. Isa shooed Geralt out of the tent as soon as she’d had breakfast and donned her armor, and Geralt was left with very little to do and a lot of free time.  

“Maybe that village will have a contract or two,” Geralt mused as she walked to where Roach was stabled. She hadn’t checked the notice board last she’d been there, and the trip would be a good way to pass the time at the very least.

At the edge of the village, though, Geralt felt her amulet activate as she passed a burned house; it was untouched, save for the fire damage, and Geralt’s curiosity was piqued. Geralt dismounted, and tied Roach to the nearby fence before heading inside carefully.

The door was gone— broken open. There were signs of a fight, and a burned body: a female elf. The house seemed like it belonged to her, and Geralt found signs of alchemical tools. She was an apothecary of some sort, but then someone turned on her, killed her and set her house aflame. Geralt shook her head at the waste. But her ears caught the distant sound of a child crying...

It took Geralt ten minutes to find the source— a hidden cellar door at the back of the house, cleverly hidden behind thorny herbs. The door was locked, though Aard was enough to break it; the fire had damaged it enough that the wood fell to pieces with one good hit. The crying had stopped, but Geralt knew what she had heard, and descended anyways.

It was dark in the cellar, but Geralt could see well enough; there was someone trying very hard not to cry in the far left of the cellar, and Geralt didn’t want to scare them more. She kneeled in the patch of light left by the entrance of the cellar.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Geralt started gently, “I only want to help. I’ll wait here as long as I need to.” They were holding their breath, but Geralt could still hear their heart pound, and continued, “I’m sorry about what happened to the lady who owned the house; she didn’t deserve what happened to her, but I can help you bring justice to the people who did it if you come out.”

“How...How did you find me?” The voice was thin and tremulous, but distinctly female.

“I’m a witcher. I could hear you crying from outside,” Geralt said, “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help.” There was a sniffle, and movement, and Geralt saw what she expected; it was a godling, much like Sarah, and Johnny. The eyes were a dead give away, glowing a bright, unearthly blue in a pale, almost silvery face. She circled around Geralt, carefully, cautiously, relaxing more and more when Geralt made no sudden moves or gestures.

“Why are you here?” she asked as she sat down in front of Geralt, wiping her eyes with her arm.

Geralt pointed at her medallion. “This alerted me to something strange in the area, and then I heard you.” Geralt tilted her head as the godling frowned. “Might I know your name?”

“Oh!” The godling exclaimed, before getting up to do a rough curtsy, “Elia’s my name. What’s yours?”

“I’m Geralt of Rivia,” Geralt introduced herself, but paused at the funny face Elia made. “What’s the matter?”

“Isn’t Geralt a boy’s name?”

Geralt smiled. “It’s my name, and I’m no boy.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Elia said, and shrugged.

“Do you know who did this, and why?” Geralt asked, gesturing upwards to the house. Elia shook her head.

“Whenever they came for potions and poultices, Mara always told me to hide. It sounded like men, though, and I think Mara wouldn’t give them what they wanted.” Geralt grimaced, and got up slowly, so she didn’t startle Elia.

“Where’re you going?” Elia asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Back up top to talk to the villagers. I promised you I’d get justice for Mara, and I’m going to do my best to try to.” Elia looked at Geralt, then looked down at her feet.

“You’re nice. But. I don’t want you to end up like Mara either,” She said softly.

Geralt kneeled before her. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, Elia. I’ve got my swords, and people will think twice before attacking someone who’s armed. Do you want to come with me?” Elia hesitated, but then nodded enthusiastically.

“I’ll be brave this time, I won’t hide!” Elia declared staunchly, and Geralt couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Well, brave Elia, would you like a piggy back ride?” Geralt offered, turning around— only to nearly stumble forward as Elia jumped her almost immediately. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Geralt said with a small laugh, and ascended the stairs.

“We’ll give Mara a proper burial, alri-” Geralt was interrupted by the sight of a small mob of men surrounding the entrance to the house. Geralt stilled, and backed up a little so that she was hidden by the house.“Elia, if this comes down to a fight, run back to the cellar, alright?” Geralt said quietly as she let go of the godling’s legs, allowing her to slide down her back and hide behind the house.

Geralt stepped forward, into the men’s sight; one of them, the man with a red hat, saw her first.

“Oi, who are you?” he asked; he looked like a farmer, but then again, they all looked like farmers to Geralt.

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt said as she walked forward, “What are all of you doing?”

“A witcher, ey?” Another man said, eyeing Geralt speculatively, “I don’t suppose you got rid o’ whatever’s been haunting this house?”  

Geralt narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what happened here?” She gestured at the burnt ruins of the house.

“Aye, it was a tragedy; lightning struck the house, and the lady burned inside. We were too late to get her out.” Geralt glared at the man, who was starting to sweat.

“You’re lyin’!” Elia shouted as she ran out from behind the house, “Mara was burned by people like you!” She was breathing heavily and shaking with anger, “I know your voice, you were there, arguing with her when the house burned!” Elia pointed at the man in blue, the one who had spoken to Geralt.

The sight of Elia, however, threw the men into a frenzy. “It’s the demon,” one man shouted, “Kill it before it curses us all!” Geralt could feel the men turn hostile intent towards Elia.

“Elia, run!” Geralt shouted as she got between the mob and the godling. She had her fists, and her magic; it would have to do.

Geralt kept her back to the wall to keep them from surrounding her, and knocked the first one out with an elbow to the face before casting Aard to unbalance the rest. One down, four to go. Yrden, Ard and Axii- slow, push and stun. Geralt cast over and over when she could, trying not to kill them; trying to stun, to immobilize. She didn’t kill people, not unless she could help it.

It was still four on one, and while Geralt had her armor and swords, these men were past the point of reason. But even farmers were dangerous in situations like this, and they got a few hits in before Geralt was able to take all but one down. Geralt let him run off; he was little more than a boy, who got caught up in the wrongs of his elders.

Geralt wiped the blood from her face, and whistled for Roach. “Elia?” Geralt called out hoarsely, “Elia, it’s safe now.” Geralt caught a flash of blue as Elia peeked out from behind a bush. “There you are,” Geralt said, relieved beyond measure. Roach clopped up behind her, and Geralt held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s bury Mara, and get you somewhere safe.”

Retrieving Mara’s body was a grisly affair; the corpse had time to stiffen, and burnt flesh was never pleasant to deal with. Still, Geralt wrapped Mara up in a sheet, before burying her under what Elia told her was Mara’s favorite tree. Geralt performed the funerary rites, and helped Elia say goodbye at last.

“Where will you go now?” Geralt asked softly as she watched Elia sniffle.

“I dunno,” Elia mumbled. Geralt looked at the new grave, and then back at Elia.

“I’ve met two other godlings like you, Elia,” Geralt started, “One lives in Novigrad— d’you know where that is?” Geralt continued after she nodded, “Her name’s Sarah, and she lives with a sorceress named Corinne in a house close to the water there. I’m sure Sarah wouldn’t mind sharing.”

Elia turned to Geralt hesitantly. “Is she nice? Corinne?”

“She’s very nice,” Geralt reassured, “You could go there, or you could go to Velen; there’s another godling named Johnny who lives there; I’m sure the animals will help you find your way.”

Elia was quiet in thought for a moment, before she looked Geralt in the eyes, and said, “Mara hid some coin in the cellar, in the corner to the right; I think she’d want you to have it. I’ll go to Novigrad, and I’ll find Corinne and Sarah. Visit me sometimes, alright?” Geralt nodded solemnly, and Elia smiled brightly, before a gust of wind forced her to cover her face. When she looked again, Elia was gone.

Geralt said one last prayer for Mara, and headed back to the main house, and gathered the coin there. Then she mounted Roach, and rode out; she couldn’t stay, and she didn’t want to anymore.

The Progress was packed ready to go by the time Geralt returned; Emhyr’s carriage was leading the way with half his royal guard spearheading the group. Ciri was on Kelpie next to the carriage, and Morvran wasn’t far behind.

Geralt stayed towards the rear, with Zoltan and Dandelion; she had no wish to deal with the nobles surrounding Ciri and Emhyr, and Zoltan didn’t look all that good.

“Geralt!” Dandelion called out and waved, as Zoltan held his head in his hands, groaning slightly.

“Dandelion,” Geralt greeted as she rode up, “How’s that hangover Zoltan?” He groaned at her unintelligibly, flapping a hand at her to make her shut up. Geralt grinned.

Dandelion slapped Zoltan on the back, “His friends did quite a number on him! In fact, he only woke up around an hour ago.” Zoltan flinched badly as horns sounded, signaling the Progress to start its march.

Geralt shook her head at her friend’s pain, and dug out her hangover recipe. “Here,” Geralt said, pushing the vial at Zoltan, “It’ll take an hour, but you’ll feel better.” Zoltan took it and downed it, and waved his hand in some gesture of thanks as he handed the now empty vial back to her.

The rest of the Progress was moving, however, and they could not lag behind.

It was a two day journey to Ban Glean, and the Progress traveled for most of the day before stopping as dusk fell. Temporary shelters were put up as people didn’t bother to set up the more elaborate dwellings in favor of practicality, and dinner was a much simpler affair than it was when the Progress had stopped. There was no celebrations or party; it would be hard riding tomorrow, and everyone knew it and turned in early.

Geralt spent the night brewing and sharpening her swords, and crafting more bombs. Samum and Grapeshot were all she had- she didn’t have the ingredients to make Dimeritum bombs, or Moondust, but as a start, it would have to do.

If she’d known she was going to get robbed, she would have bought extra from Kaer Morhen.

The next day dawned bright and clear and a little cold; the wind was mostly coming from the north, and the hills they were in weren’t breaking the wind much. The Progress was slow to move that morning; the wind and the cold made everyone sluggish, and it was mid-morning by the time the Progress was underway.

The wind had been consistently blowing from the north, forcing Dandelion to hunch over without his hat, and Geralt to have her hood up— but then the wind blew from the south. From the direction of Emhyr’s carriage.

Geralt took a deep breath and stilled. There was something familiar...

She looked over towards Emhyr’s carriage; Ciri was riding just beside it, but that wasn’t what concerned her.

She spurred Roach on, ignoring the startled voices of Dandelion and Zoltan as she rode ahead, circling around the main part of the Progress until she reached the side of the carriage next to Ciri, eliciting a surprised “Geralt?” as her horse startled a bit.

She ignored that, however, and got to the point. “You have to get out of there, now,” Geralt said to Emhyr, maneuvering Roach so that she cut the carriage off in the front; the horses drawing the carriage startled badly, though the driver was able to calm them down. “Ciri, get your father on your horse, the carriage is laced with Dragon’s Dream!” Geralt could faintly smell smoke now, and barely drew her sword up in time to deflect a flaming crossbow bolt.

She jumped off of Roach’s back to clamber atop the carriage, and whirled around, listening for more bowstrings and signs of activity, and cast Yrden on one side of the carriage. Geralt stood ready on the other side, guarding the carriage from more bolts, trusting Ciri to get Emhyr out of there.

The rest of the Progress had gone on high alert the second Geralt drew her blade, but Geralt ignored them as she tried to hear where the next shot would come from. She whirled as the catch on a crossbow released, but it wasn’t aiming for the carriage this time; it was aiming at her, and Geralt dodged it desperately, a line of fire where the bolt grazed her blazing to life on her side.

 _Poison_ , Geralt thought, and swore colorfully, even as she raised her guard again. An Aard forced two more arrows away from the carriage, and Geralt stopped to listen once again; the attackers had shifted.

“They’re running!” Geralt shouted, pointing in one direction. “One forty meters to the east and at least two thirty meters to the west; they’re armed with poison!” Emhyr’s guard reacted instantly, one knight taking riders to the west, and the captain of the guard moving towards the east.

Geralt took the time to climb off of the carriage, whistling for Roach as she reached the ground. Ciri reached her just as Roach did, though Geralt was able to swing up onto the saddle just before she started to speak.

“Geralt, you sure everything is safe now?” Ciri asked as she reached her. Emhyr wasn’t far behind; he’d commandeered his own horse from some knight, and a ring was glowing on his finger; there were brief flickers of light surrounding him in what Geralt could only guess was a barrier.

She downed a Golden Oriole and a Swallow in quick succession, and sighed in relief as the burning dulled, and faded. “They’ve run, and they know that their plan failed; there may be another attempt, but I don’t know when or where,” Geralt said, “Whoever did this didn’t care about the casualties; they just wanted who or whatever was in the carriage gone.” At that Geralt turned to Emhyr, who was listening as well, but suspiciously quiet. Geralt’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You knew,” she accused, turning Roach closer to the Emperor, “You knew there would be an attack!”

“I am prepared for any eventuality, witcher,” Emhyr replied, “And there are still many who would see Nilfgaard retreat from the North— enough that they would believe putting my life in danger might persuade me to yield.”

“A warning would have been nice!” Emhyr ignored that, and turned to the nearest aide. Geralt shook her head and muttered to herself, “Him? Yield? Do they know him?”

“Find a suitable area and make camp,” he ordered before he turned back to Geralt. “You will find out how the carriage was trapped, and report to me once the Progress has settled for the evening.”

Geralt was about to respond when suddenly the wind blew from the south, and she caught the scent again; one of the stable hands was right behind her and the _smell_ —

Geralt leaped off of Roach and tackled the man to the ground; he started shouting, but Geralt ignored it- she could smell the components of the Dragon’s Dream on his hands. Geralt pinned him by the throat, and was about to call out- when there was a stabbing pain in her side. It twisted, and the sudden agony got worse and Geralt looked down to see the stable hand had stabbed her. Geralt tightened her grip on his throat, but not before pinning his arms with her legs, cutting off the blood flow to his brain until he went unconscious.

She made sure he was unconscious before Geralt staggered up, and pulled the dagger out- the bleeding was slowing, but there was something... wrong.

“Dragon’s Dream— on hands—” Geralt gasped, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and/or kudos are appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt is unconscious yet _again_ , and Yennefer gains some closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not quite happy with how this one turned out but I was like, fuck it its how it's going. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy! As always, comments and kudos are appreciated!

Ciri swore a blue streak as Geralt collapsed, shifting through space to try and catch her before she landed on the ground. She was successful, but Geralt was  _ heavy _ , and Ciri staggered under her weight. She managed to lower Geralt to the ground gently, and quickly rummaged through Geralt’s pockets. 

“Bind him!” Ciri heard Emhyr order, and glanced back at her father; he was pointing at the stable hand, his gaze sharp and cold as his guard jumped to action. Ciri ignored the tussle as the guard leaped to action, and continued to rummage through Geralt’s pockets.

“Shit,” Ciri swore, “She doesn’t have any Golden Oriole, damn it.” Ciri quickly unbuckled Geralt’s armor; the area around the wound was inflamed, black veins trailing from the slowly closing injury. Ciri looked around for the dagger, grabbing it the second she saw it. “I need a healer!” Ciri shouted, before opening one of Geralt’s bottles of White Honey and pouring it down her throat. 

The darkness around her eyes receded, but did not completely disappear, but Ciri was distracted when multiple pairs of hands took Geralt from her. Ciri looked to Emhyr, who nodded towards her abandoned horse. 

“Wolreg and his assistants will help stabilize the witcher; it is now more important than ever that we reach Ban Glean.” Ciri pursed her lips, but nodded and mounted up. As she passed next to him, Emhyr asked, “Cirilla, what is Dragon’s Dream?”

“It’s a highly flammable substance that witchers use in bombs to disperse, and then set aflame using Igni, or a different bomb like Samum,” Ciri said, “The carriage should be inspected carefully; I don’t know how they got Dragon’s Dream into it, but it needs to be removed.”

Emhyr nodded. “Agreed,” he said, turning his mount to the South, “And we must continue on the Progress.” Ciri watched as Emhyr gave the order, and the Progress resumed its path within minutes. “She will be with the sorceresses and mages, I imagine,” Emhyr said, almost offhandedly. Ciri realized just how much she was fidgeting, and stilled at those words, before nodding sharply and taking off towards their section of the Progress. 

There was a slight commotion when Ciri arrived; someone had commandeered one of the wagons to lay Geralt and some alchemical ingredients in, and when Ciri had gotten close enough, she could hear Yennefer shouting. 

“Yennefer!” Ciri called out as she dismounted, and jumped onto the wagon. Yennefer stopped shouting at Wolreg and looked at Ciri in surprise. Wolreg wisely took the opportunity to retreat as Yennefer’s attention was focused on Ciri. 

“Ciri—” Yen started to say something but Ciri interrupted her by sticking the dagger from the stable hand in her face. Yen stared at it almost cross-eyed. “Is that-?”

“The dagger with the poison, yes,” Ciri said, waiting until Yen took the dagger before clambering in beside Geralt. 

Yen followed, muttering, “The poison’s on the blade, so let’s see...” There was a spark of magical energy and Yen cursed. “It’s strong, but it shouldn’t have rendered her unconscious; does she have any other wounds?” 

“I know she downed a Golden Oriole and a Swallow earlier,” Ciri said as she looked over Geralt’s body carefully, making a noise as she found the slashed leather at her side. “Here, Yen,” Ciri said, pointing. 

Yen touched it, a spark of magic emanating from her fingers. She flinched back a moment later, hissing, “That's not good,” Yennefer said, taking a dagger out and cutting away the leather and cloth. Blackened veins spread around the wound high on her ribs, and when they cut away the armor at Geralt’s side, they found the same there. 

“What-”

“Ciri, did you give Geralt White Honey?” Yen asked desperately. She nodded mutely, and Yen cursed. “Golden Oriole was delaying its symptoms; now Geralt’s in toxic shock.” 

“How is that possible? White Honey dissipates and neutralizes the toxins in the body,” Ciri protested.

“She’s not actually  _ in _ full toxicity, but her body’s registering the poison’s effects as if she’d downed more than just two potions; somehow, they designed the poison to resist Golden Oriole’s cleansing effects,” Yen said, moving to where Geralt’s head lay, “I’ll need you to wash the wound, to try and get as much poison out as possible.” Yen ordered, before she started chanting softly, over and over again. 

There was a basin nearby, so Ciri got to work. It was gruesome, washing the poison out of the stab wound; it had swollen up and turned black, and Ciri’s efforts in cleaning it were largely in vain. 

“Yennefer, the wound is  _ closed _ and I can’t get any more out,” Ciri said, over Yennefer’s increasingly loud chanting. Finally there was a spark of blue, and Geralt’s body convulsed before going still. Yennefer collapsed backwards with a gasp, panting heavily. 

“I can’t do anything more,” Yen said, scrambling to check Geralt’s pulse. She sighed in relief when she found it, and continued, “I’ve stabilized her; but the longer the poison is in her system, the more damage it does.”

“Who would know more?” Ciri asked, and Yennefer shot her an exasperated look. 

“The assassins would, obviously, but barring them,” Yennefer grimaced in distaste, “The druids are the ones best equipped-”

“Yen.”

“Not now, Geralt,” Yennefer said, before she realized, “Geralt!”

Geralt winced as she levered herself up, and pushed herself backwards so that she was leaning against the wall. “Symptoms,” she asked hoarsely, panting from the pain and exertion both. 

“You’re going into toxic shock,” Ciri responded, “White Honey hasn’t worked—”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Geralt said, “Not against a Witcher-killer.”

“A  _ what? _ ” Ciri and Yennefer both responded, but Geralt weakly waved her hand. 

“It’s meant to elevate the body’s sense for potions and decoctions,” Geralt said, “We gotta get it out of the bloodstream, then administer a Golden Oriole and Swallow.” 

“Geralt, you’re already on the brink! If you take another potion—”

Geralt glared at Yennefer, “The way my body detects the toxicity of my blood is by how much I’ve taken versus how much blood I  _ have _ . You’re going to have to bleed me until I’ve lost over half my blood, and  _ then  _ administer the Golden Oriole.”

“You don’t have more doses, Geralt,” Ciri protested, and Geralt turned to look at her.

“It’s why you’re going to have to make more,” she said, “I have enough ingredients for a replenishment of the doses I made, and it’ll be ready by the time I’ve bled enough to fool my body. They’re with Roach.” Geralt looked at Ciri and Yen carefully. “This won’t be pleasant, and neither of you should have to see this-”

“Shut up, Geralt,” Ciri said, leaving the wagon quickly. Geralt watched her go, before turning back to Yen.

“Don’t be stupid,” was all Yen would say as she prepared a dagger for the bleeding. Geralt laboriously took off her vest and shirt, leaving her just in her breast band. She was sickly pale and sweating profusely when she finally finished, but the blade was ready, and Geralt put her belt between her teeth as Yen cut around the poisoned wound. 

Geralt nearly bit through the belt as Yennefer started to cut, and an agonized noise left her as she leaned hard against the wagon’s wall. Yennefer caught the blood in a nearby basin, and Geralt shut her eyes as blood continued to pour into it. 

A twist of magic had the blood go from the wound to the basin without falling onto the wagon or onto Geralt despite the swaying of the wagon, but the sight was unpleasant to say the least. Ciri returned not long after the bloodletting began, and quietly started the process of replenishing Golden Oriole and White Honey. 

The only sounds in the wagon was Geralt’s harsh breaths, and the soft clinking of glass on metal as Ciri made the potions.

Geralt was right. By the time Ciri had finished, she’d lost most of her blood. Her skin was white and waxy, her breath faint as her eyes wavered, unable to focus. 

“Yen, do you think--” Ciri started to ask, but was interrupted as Geralt opened her eyes, and put out a hand.

“Now,” she said, and Ciri shoved the Golden Oriole in her hand, waiting for her to down it before handing her Swallow. Geralt drank both potions down, gasping as the effects took hold. Ciri and Yen watched as the blackened veins retreated towards the main wounds, the blood dripping from it steadily becoming more red, and less black. 

Finally, when the blood ran completely red instead of black, Yennefer readied the blade that would cauterize the wound. 

The smell was horrendous, and the sounds Geralt made before she mercifully passed out were even worse, but the wound was closed, and was healing already. Yennefer exhaled shakily, and dropped the knife in the bloody basin, but bound the wound, and tried to make Geralt more comfortable. 

Yennefer exhaled shakily. “That was too close,” she said firmly, “Much too close.” She leaned back against the wagon wall, across from Geralt. 

Ciri sighed. “She's alive, though,” Ciri said, before straightening up and making for the back of the wagon. “I’ll let Papa know what happened. When do you think Geralt will wake up?”

“At the latest? Tomorrow, perhaps, or maybe the day after; she suffered a lot of damage from the poison,” Yennefer replied, watching as Ciri left. She then turned to Geralt, her gaze intent, yet sad. 

“I still love you, Geralt,” Yennefer said quietly, “But I do not regret  freeing us both for a second; it was better to know the truth, than live in an uncertain lie. But I miss you,” Yennefer admitted quietly, “I miss just talking to you, laughing with you. I wish...” Yennefer stopped and put her face in her hands and sighed. “But wishes are for fools who want the unattainable.” 

She rose from her seat, and put a hand against Geralt's face before pressing a kiss to her forehead and leaving the wagon herself. 

As she mounted her own horse, she felt weary, and yet strangely at peace. Some part of her would always love Geralt, but she was more than just who she did or did not love. She was Yennefer of Vengerberg, with strength in her own right: advisor to an Emperor, a guardian of the Elder Blood, and one of the greatest sorceresses alive. When all else fades, when even her life finally ends, Yennefer would always have that.

\--------------------------------------------------

Ciri couldn't get to Emhyr fast enough, Geralt’s words racing through her mind. 

A witcher-killer? Someone targeted Geralt and Emhyr, and were prepared enough to procure a poison specifically made to kill witchers? It boggled Ciri’s mind, and enraged her at the same time. Someone tried to kill both Emhyr  _ and _ Geralt. She’d been expecting assassination attempts on Emhyr- Emperors were always critical targets, and he never seemed to stop making enemies- but  _ Geralt? _

Geralt was just a witcher. Few would have grievance with her, and Ciri thought she only would have to worry about Geralt when it came to contracts and hunts. Geralt would never had been targeted by assassins had it not been for Ciri in the first place. And that  _ infuriated _ her.

Ciri rode up beside Emhyr as he was handing out orders. She didn’t know what her expression was like, but it was enough for Emhyr to eye her critically before saying, “Prognosis?”

“Unconscious, but stable,” Ciri said stiffly, “The poison was neutralized, and she should be awake in a day or two.” Emhyr nodded, but continued to watch Ciri.

“There is more,” Emhyr prompted, and Ciri turned to him. 

“She said that the poison that was used was created specifically to kill witchers,” Ciri said steadily, “What made them change their mind?” Emhyr’s lips tightened imperceptibly, and Ciri knew she was on the right track. 

“They are more intelligent than I anticipated. They realized that so long as Geralt is present, she would thwart any and all assassination attempts on you or I,” Emhyr said lowly, gaze fixed resolutely ahead. Ciri turned to see the walls of Ban Glean in the distance, about a day’s journey away. 

“And what are we going to do about it?”

“No one attacks those under Our protection without reprisal, Cirilla,” Emhyr said lowly, his back straight and proud as he rode ahead. 

Ciri I watched her father speculatively. There was a fleeting undercurrent of rage as Emhyr spoke, and it surprised her; she wasn't sure if it was intentional, or not, but still. The fact that she even  _ caught  _ it...

Well. This could be interesting.


End file.
